


And Should I Perish, I Perish With Thee

by Scribo_Vivere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Background Het, Blasphemy, Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribo_Vivere/pseuds/Scribo_Vivere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DCBB 2014 Fanfic Challenge: With the hunt for Abbadon growing ever more desperate, Dean's becoming more and more convinced that the only way to get to her is through unscrupulous means, and he's determined to employ them through any means necessary. Meanwhile, Castiel is becoming a victim of his fading grace, and must try to save the man he once knew. Caught between angels, demons, love, lust, and the perils of the human soul, one hunter must make a choice that will forever change his life. ART LINK HERE: http://wifihunters.tumblr.com/post/100859133610.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Should I Perish, I Perish With Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my darling Amanda for all the work she put into this! You're such a sweetie; love you so much!

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Sam followed the repetitious noise down the Men of Letters' hallway until he came to the library, where he found his brother yet again, in the same seat as he was yesterday, and the preceding day, and the day before that. A nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam sat beside a stack of thick files, and then Sam realized where the sound was coming from-Dean, who was throwing his knife into the table over and over again.

“Uh, Dean?” the younger man ventured. “I don't think you want to do that. These tables are over fifty years old.”

Dean tossed Sam a look so dark and morose that it sent chills down his spine. “No, I think I do.”

Cautiously, Sam advanced, mindful of the knife. In Dean's current state, he couldn't be sure what, exactly, his brother would choose to do with it. “Dean, are you still looking for Abbadon? I left you here seven hours ago to go to bed and you were doing the same thing.”

Dean smiled mirthlessly. “No rest for the hunted, Sam.”

Sam wasn't certain if “the hunted” in this case was Abbadon or his brother himself, but he didn't dare ask. Awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Okay, well, I'm going to go make some coffee, so do you want me to-”

“You enjoy that.” Dean had finally put the knife down, turning back to the files and beginning to thumb through them again, his back to Sam. It was clear the conversation was over.

A little hurt, Sam retreated into the kitchen, but instead of starting up the pot of joe as he'd planned, he stood there staring at the percolator, severely concerned. The hunt for the Knight of Hell was slowly consuming his brother, and Sam could only hope that in the end, it didn't swallow him whole.

* “Have we told Moose about our secret rendezvous in the heat of the night yet?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarled, and rounded on Crowley outside the bar down the road from the bunker with such a ferocity that the demon backed away with a hiss of surprise, his hands in the air.

“Down, boy. What's got your knickers in a twist?”

“Just remember, Crowley,” Dean said quietly, suddenly calm, “I don't need you. I could just as easily find Abbadon myself.”

“Oh, could you now?” Crowley smirked. “Why still come to me, then?” He circled Dean, then stopped, mouth at his ear, tone very soft.

“The bitch will only bite if she's hungry.”

In one swift move, Dean had reached out and grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his jacket. In the process, the Mark of Cain was revealed on his forearm, gleaming hot and bright in the moonlight. Crowley looked down at it, then back up at Dean, a growing realization in his eyes.

“It appears she isn't the only one that needs to be fed.”

Dean seemed to struggle for a moment, then released Crowley with a growl. “I'm fine.”

“Are you really?” Crowley folded his arms. “You mean to tell me it doesn't burn inside you? The need, the desire to kill?”

Something flickered in Dean's eyes for a moment, something dark and wild--vicious--but he said, “No. All I want is to stab that poisonous bitch through the heart with the First Blade. I've never wanted to kill anyone for the sake of killing alone.”

Crowley raised a slim brow. “And you think that can't change?”

“I'm not a killer,” Dean spat. It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, and Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we've been over this. But the Mark of Cain has true power, Dean, such as you have never known.” He stepped close, gaze burning into Dean's soul as surely as the Mark burned into his skin. “There will be a time when you must make a choice concerning where your loyalties lie-what path you will take for the rest of your life-and when that time does come, I certainly won't envy you.”

“Just give me the information you said you had, Crowley,” Dean snapped. “I'm not gonna stand here all night and have a philosophical discussion with you.”

“Aren't we patient?” Crowley sighed irritably, but reached into his blazer pocket nonetheless and handed Dean a slip of paper. Dean took it, staring at the fluid scrawl.

“And you expect me to believe this is credible?”

Crowley appeared insulted. “You doubt me? Would I be up to devious things like this if I didn't know what I was doing?”

“Yeah, okay, fine.” Dean opened the Impala's driver side door, but then hesitated. “Just stay out of my way, and-” His jaw tightened. “Keep Sammy out of the loop.”

As he drove away, a small, knowing smile curved Crowley's lips upward. _For a creature who hates demons, boy, you're becoming just like one of us._

*

“Give her five hundred milligrams of Amoxicillin, twice a day, for the next five days. If her ear infection is worse than it was this evening, bring her back to the Emergency Department at that time. All right?”

The father of the fifteen year old he had just treated shook his hand. “Thank you so much.”

Walking out to the bustling desk at Smith County Memorial Hospital, the tall, dark-haired man removed a chart from the stack and smiled at one of the nurses. “Who am I to see next, Miss Sarah?”

She peered at the computer screen in front of her. “Let's see, Doctor...here we are; room twelve. He gave his name as Mike, just that, and nothing else.” She lowered her voice. “He told the attendant he likes to play with knives and guns. There's a strange design carved into his arm, too, and he looks like he did it himself. It sounds like a fifty-one-fifty case to me.”

Sympathetically, the doctor nodded. “I'll take care of him.” A few moments later, he tapped softly on the outside wall of room twelve. “Mike?” he called. “It's Doctor MacHale. May I enter?”

There was no reply, and he knocked again. Still nothing, and this time he stepped inside, pulling the curtain across behind him for privacy.

Instantly he was slammed to the opposite wall, his back connecting roughly with the plaster, a few flakes drifting to the floor. Emerald green eyes bore into his own, the fury in them taking his breath away.

“You want to tell me why an angel is suddenly seeing patients at an ER?” The soft question was laced with ice. "From what I've experienced of you pricks, it doesn't sound like simple charity to me. Your deeds are always laced with a price.”

Before the said creature in question could reply, the other man pressed the blade tighter against his throat, hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. “And try not to lie to me, _Doc_.”

In a soft Scottish accent, the angel replied, “You have never been this reckless. The demon Crowley did his part, but Cain's Mark is surely wearing on you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean's grip on the angel's blade loosened slightly, and he said, voice tight and strangled, “What the fuck does the Mark of Cain have to do with you?”

“I hardly think having this discussion at the end of a blade is prudent,” was the calm reply. The angel watched indecision mixed with irritation flash in the man's eyes, and then Dean slowly lowered the blade, stashing it in his jacket.

“Fine, we'll have it somewhere else. You want to tell me how a doctor is going to get a supposedly mentally unstable patient out of the hospital unseen?” The response was a shrug as the angel gathered his fallen chart. “I'll simply tell them I'm taking you to the family room in order that you may make a telephone call. From there it will be easy to leave. The rear doors are not alarmed, and I possess a pass that will get us through.”

“And no one will see us and give chase?” Dean asked skeptically.

The angel looked directly into Dean's eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

Dean found himself speaking before he could stop himself, and God damn it, why did all these douchebags have the ability to _do_ this shit to him?

“Yes.”

“Then come, quickly. We haven't much time. They will have realized what we are planning.”

He glanced at the front desk, and Dean's heart sank as he realized what he was getting at. “There are demons working here, aren't there?”

“Has your skill as a hunter diminished with the added task of carrying the Mark?” the angel chided. “My head nurse is one of the foul creatures, as well as three of the surgeons and all of the security guards.”

“Great,” Dean muttered, tightening his grip on the angel blade under his jacket as he peered out into the hallway, where he could see four of the aforementioned guards milling about. “Well, let's do this.”

*

“Doctor MacHale?” the head nurse asked in surprise as she saw “Mike” being escorted down the hall.

The angel smiled pleasantly. “Not to worry, Sarah. The patient wished to make a family phone call. We'll return shortly.” The tallest, beefiest security guard was suddenly by their side, walking with them down the hall.

“I'll stay outside the door,” he rumbled. “That won't be necessary,” the angel said with a flash of a smile, as they reached the family room. “Mike won't be a flight risk.”

The security guard smiled as they reached it and stepped inside, not kindly, and his eyes flicked to coal. “Not alone, but with you, Aira? Now there's a risk none of us are taking.”

Dean nearly drew the blade then and there, but Aira spoke, his tone cool and collected. “There are innocent men and women within these rooms. I know you care nothing for them, but perhaps you care for your own safety. This man bears the Mark.”

The demon's lips curled up. “Cain's Mark?” he growled. “You wear the killing stamp? All the more reason to rid ourselves of you.” He stepped forward.

In an instant, Dean had spun the demon around in an inhuman show of strength and pinned him over two chairs, the angel's blade at his throat. A sudden show of fear sparked in his eyes, and it drove Dean's hunger and bloodlust even higher. He forced the hell spawn's breath from his lungs as he drove a fist into his sternum, his own breathing labored with excitement. “Leave now,” Dean hissed quietly, “or I'll spill your black blood all over this rug. I promise you, this is your last chance before I change my mind.”

Roughly, he let the demon go, and he backed up with a snarl, eyes still wide with fear. “This isn't over,” he promised, and strode back down the hall. Dean watched him go, a sizzling fire in his veins that yearned to go after him and smite every creature that dared get in his way; dared to take the thrill of the kill away from him. It was better than sex; the force of it thrummed through his veins and made him shake.

“Dean.” Gently, Aira touched his shoulder. “If we are to go, we must do so now.” His eyes spoke volumes, but Dean knew it would have to wait until they found someplace more private--and safe--to talk. The demon would have gone to alert its cohorts by now, Dean knew, and they'd no doubt be coming after them both.

Silently, Dean replaced the blade and followed the angel as he swept them through the secured doors and out into the twilight of the hospital's parking lot. Dean turned to him as they swiftly strode across it.

“So where are we going, James Bond?”

The angel stopped beside a black Mazda, opening the driver's side door before shrugging off his white jacket and carelessly tossing it in a heap in the backseat. “I know of a place that will offer protection and sustenance. Follow me in your vehicle.”

Without another word, the angel had slid behind the wheel, shutting the door and starting the engine.

Dean opened his mouth, about to ask exactly what “place” the other creature had in mind, but in the side mirror he suddenly caught sight of three security guards hustling through the hallway after them. Whether by a trick of the Mark, or because of his time spent in Hell, he witnessed their true faces, and the looks in their bulging, many-veined, puce-colored eyes made him spin on his heels.

“Time to go,” he said aloud, and sprinted to the Impala, gunning her engine and peeling out after the Mazda, which was already two car lengths ahead of him.

*

It was roughly an hour and a half's ride before the angel's car turned off the highway down a dirt road, with no streetlamps anywhere in sight, no signs, and no explanation. Warily, Dean directed the Impala after it. Soon after the turnoff, the scenery changed to woods all around them, tall trees springing up like ancient guardians of the forest, and Dean's skin crawled with a hunter's instinct. He couldn't put his finger on what felt wrong about the situation, and not knowing bothered him more than anything.

Shortly after, the Mazda stopped in front of a large log cabin with a wraparound porch, its lights dimming and then going out completely. Dean pulled up behind the other car and sat there for a moment, waiting to see what the angel would do, fingering the angel blade hidden under his seat just in case the shit hit the fan.

A sharp rap on his window made the man jump, and he spun to see the angel there. Heart skittering beneath his ribs, he rolled it down. “Jesus, don't do that to a guy,” he snapped. “I never even saw you move.”

Ignoring him, the angel spoke. “As far as I can tell, we have not been followed here, but I would advise getting inside quickly. There is protection to be had within those walls.” Dean frowned at him. “Why am I getting the feeling that I should be watching my back with you too? So far all you've given me is a load of cryptic crap.”

Without a word, the angel turned and began to walk towards the house. Mumbling under his breath, Dean got out and, after locking the Impala for good measure, followed him. The woods were eerily silent except for the occasional call of an owl and the constant calls of the crickets. Dean was seriously not on board with the whole situation, but they reached the cabin's steps without incident, and once the door had opened, he cautiously stepped over the threshold.

Immediately he saw the devil's traps on the walls and ceiling, and smiled grimly, turning to the angel, who had gone over to a small liquor cabinet and removed two glasses and a bottle. “Someone wants to hand your ass to you, don't they?” Dean asked. “Even with you being an angel and all that, you needed some extra backup, huh?” Once more, his question was ignored, this time in favor of another question as the angel began to pour from the bottle.

“Have you ever tasted brandy, Dean?” Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the black leather couch that sat in the middle of the well-furnished room, curious where the conversation was headed, and yet all too happy to end it if the need arose. “Yeah. Can't say I'm a fan of it.”

The angel sipped from his glass, then withdrew another, larger bottle. “Perhaps this is more to your liking?”

Even from that distance, Dean could see the label read Jack Daniels. He narrowed his eyes. “You tell me. What's whiskey and brandy got to do with demons and the Mark of Cain?”

The angel handed him a full glass of the whiskey. “They are an addiction and a poison both,” he said, eyes deep andknowing. Switching gears suddenly, he asked, “Do you know what my name means?” Dean took the whiskey, tossing half of it back in one gulp, ignoring the harsh burn as it went down. “Can't say I do.”

“I'm of a lesser group of the angels. I have power over medicine.” He sighed. “It was why I used the gentleman you see before you to tend to sick patients. I was never one to engage in battle, and it both baffled and frustrated my brothers and sisters. I wanted only to heal, and so did he. And here we are.”

Dean stared at him. “And then Metatron fucked everyone over, and you lost your Grace.”

Aira's hazel eyes were intense. “No, Dean. I retained it. I was the only angel that did.”

Dean felt as though all the breath had been knocked out of him, and he was forced to steady himself against the couch lest he topple over sideways onto the elaborate Persian rug.

“What?” he choked. The knowledge was so far removed from everything he and Sam had been fighting against and learning the past year that he didn't know what to say or to think. “You mean that's why those demons were after you back there? It was all because you still have all your juice? Why didn't the dick upstairs drain you like he drained all the others?” And then, as he reflected on what he'd just said, the gears in Dean's head began to turn. His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you're smooth,” he said grimly. “I actually thought for a minute that you were telling the truth. But here's the problem—demons don't want to work with angels. They're not the sharing-and-caring type, especially when it comes to your kind. So what are you really hiding, Aira?”

Aira's gaze met Dean's again, and the scorching heat of it burned the hunter's soul to a crisp. “It does not matter. What does is that sooner or later you will succumb to Cain's symbol.”

“That's never going to happen,” Dean said, intent on searching out the angel's secrets another time, but Aira reached out and swiftly caught him by the arm, exposing the Mark in the same instance. At once white-hot pain flared at the spot, crawling up Dean's wrist and sliding through his veins. “Do you think that this is a game?” Aira snapped, anger blooming in his eyes. “Once Cain's Mark is given, it cannot be erased. It will fester and entwine itself within the heart until nothing remains but a blackened crust of what was once pure and vibrant life.”

Dean yanked his arm free. “What makes you think I'm an example of a pure life?” he bit back, and Aira calmed at once, searching his face. “You took the Mark as self-punishment,” he said quietly.

Dean swallowed. “Doesn't matter now,” he said gruffly. “What's done is done. I just need to find Abbadon and-” Aira tilted his head in a heartbreaking way that reminded Dean of Castiel. They'd grown so far apart over the past year that it hurt to even look at the other man. “You truly believe slaying the Knight of Hell will ease your sorrow? Dean, the Mark cannot bring relief. It will only cause more pain until you bend and break under the weight of it.”

“Save me the doomsday speech,” Dean spat. “Why'd you bring me here? Why are the demons really after you? There's got to be another reason besides the fact that you're a walking nuclear plant.”

Aira sat on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his gaze somewhere farther away than the cabin. “There are many factors in play. All of them will be revealed to you in time.”

“Well, forgive me if I'm not willing to wait that long,” Dean snapped, and Aira looked up, meeting his gaze. “The demon Crowley gave you my name. Your intention was to kill me when you arrived at the hospital, believing I was on the wrong side of the battle, yet I have shown you nothing to prove such a fact. Have you not considered that perhaps you are seeking after one who is innocent?”

Dean growled, “Life doesn't work that way. Everyone's got their own agenda, and they all want to achieve it no matter what it takes or who gets in the way. Somewhere, somehow, somebody in this little charade is lying, and if I find out it's you-”

“What will you then do?” Aira asked quietly. “Would you slay me as the Mark commands? Or if I were found to be speaking the truth, would you aid me?” Dean set his jaw, annoyed with the riddles. “Look, if you're not on their side and you're really in trouble, then fine, whatever, I'll do my best to get you out of it. But I'm warning you now, if all you want is to fuck around with me, then it's a pretty fair bet to say that I'm gonna impale you on the end of my blade.”

Aira held his gaze for a moment longer, and then motioned at the other side of the couch. “Sit, if you would.”

Warily, Dean did so, allowing the angel to pour him another glass of whiskey. It was a few moments more before Aira began to speak softly. “Years ago, a child was born. She was gifted with the Sight, and Heaven rang with the promise of what she would accomplish for all mankind. As she grew and matured in both knowledge and wisdom, her angel guardian made certain to protect her from the evils of the darkness, both in this world and the one below.” Aira's eyes grew pained. “But there were some who would exploit her gift for their own gain, and those included ones from our own ranks. It soon became necessary for her guardian to undertake the task of wiping her memory to ensure her safety.”

Dean frowned. “What's the Sight? And if her memory is wiped, what's the problem? Shouldn't she be fine now?”

“The Sight enables one to prophesize. It has not been gifted to a mortal since the time of the Twelve Disciples, but Dean, you must understand—with the Sight comes a great price. The gifted one in question cannot seal up the words they have been given, nor can they ever be free of their burden. We had thought that she would remain unscathed throughout, but her life was threatened by forces too numerous for us to overcome. Wiping her memory was the only option, and though it did provide a respite, she has begun to remember who she once was. These memories come in the form of debilitating headaches, and soon, the Sight will return to her. She must be found before demonic forces discover the truth-and destroy her.”

“Okay, well, all that I get, but,” Dean stared hard at the angel, “there's something else here that you aren't telling me, isn't there?”

Aira sighed heavily. “We have long awaited a heavy prophesy from the Sight, not knowing when it would come. We cannot place a time on when that prophesy will be spoken, and if it were to be spoken in the presence of demons...” He paused, his posture stiff, expression brooding. “When the rest of Heaven fell, I was allowed to keep my Grace to...absolve her of her sins. I have found myself unable to do so.”

Dean felt his stomach sink with horror. “Absolve her? You mean kill her, don't you?”

Aira looked up at him heavily. “Yes.”

Realization dawned on Dean. “That's why the demons are after you. They were going to...” His eyes slipped shut. “Oh Christ. Metatron sent them, didn't he? To finish the job you couldn't, and then end your life for failure to stick with his program?”

“Yes,” Aira said softly, and Dean's fingers tightened on his glass. “He really is a dick,” he said bitterly. “You have a name and a location for this girl?”

Aira hesitated. “Her name at birth was Magdalena Herrera. At that time she was residing in Lexington, Nebraska, but now I do not know the answer to either of your questions. Much time has passed.”

Dean threw back the rest of his whiskey and made to rise. “I've got to get back to Sam and tell him all this. We can't waste any time.”

Aira stopped him. “There is more.”

“More?” Dean echoed. “You mean this clusterfuck gets _worse_?”

Aira's expression was grim. “Dean, Abbadon is also searching for the girl.”

Dean's heart nearly stopped. He knew how badly Abbadon had played with him—what might she do if she were to find this prophetic woman before they did? He gripped his car keys until his fingers began to go numb.

“I'm going back to the bunker,” he repeated stubbornly. “Sam and I can be in Lexington within two hours of leaving it.”

“Do not involve your brother in this.”

Dean's jaw fell open. “What did you say?”

Aira's words were firm. “In a matter as weighty as this one, you cannot afford to let your mind be occupied with thoughts of his safety constantly. You must focus on the task at hand.”

Dean's jaw tightened. “Sounds an awful lot like you're giving me orders. And I don't personally care for winged dicks giving me orders.”

Aira narrowed his eyes. “Would you rather the consequences be Magdalena's capture, torture, and death? You know the methods of the Knight of Hell—as well as you knew how to break those under your care.” The words hit Dean like a ton of bricks, and he reeled back physically, but Aira stepped close to meet him, his eyes aflame.

“Make a choice, Dean—your brother, or her. I am well aware of the bond you share with Sam. He is your weakness as you are his, but Magdalena is not a simple pawn on a chessboard. She is a harbinger of something that even I have yet to understand, with all my knowledge. She will make or break us all, and we cannot risk losing her because of your unwillingness to look beyond what you can see with your physical eyes. I will not ask you twice.”

For a moment, the two stared each other down, and then Dean flung his keys atop the table, where they skittered across the mahogany wood. “Fine,” he bit out. “But if I'm throwing in my lot with you, you'd better figure out a way that I can keep Crowley off my trail. Like you already know, he's the reason that I accosted you in that hospital. When he finds out I haven't sent you back upstairs to angel prison, it's not going to make his day.”

Aira was unfazed as always. “I will handle the demon. Find Magdalena, and protect her with your last breath.”

Dean didn't bother telling the angel that he'd had a lot of practice at that.

*

“Hey, Cas, it's Sam. I know I've already left you two messages, but I could really use your help here. Dean's been gone for a week, and he isn't answering my calls. I'd go check on him, but I don't know where he went or even if he needs checking on. So, just—give me a call back, please?”

Sam ended the call with a worried crease between his brows, turning back to the library table, where the files Dean had been working on still lay, untouched since Sam had gotten up at dawn seven days prior and found the Impala gone. He wavered between scouring them again or trying another avenue, perhaps some of the ancient weathered tomes on the shelves, but he was too anxious, he knew, to concentrate. Where could his brother have disappeared to, he wondered, as he pushed a hand through his hair. He was well aware of the fact that Dean had been relentlessly pursuing leads on Abbadon for months, but so far they had come up empty. If he had suddenly found one that had panned out and decided to follow it on his own... Sam's heart thudded in his ribcage. There was no love lost between the Knight of Hell and the elder Winchester, and Sam didn't want to find out what would happen were they to engage in a full battle. He wasn't sure what scared him more: Dean's vicious intent to kill Abbadon, the truth that he might indeed find her, or the thought of him utilizing the Mark to end her life.

He resumed his pacing, unable to stop his frantic thoughts. At last, knowing it would do no good and left with a heavy headache, he sighed and made his way into the kitchen, browsing through the cupboards and refrigerator until he found ingredients for a Mongolian stir fry. Soon, the smell of browning meat and sizzling vegetables filled the air, and when his phone rang, it startled him so much he burned his hand on the frying pan. Cursing, he hurriedly grabbed for the thing before it hit voicemail.

“Shit, _shit_ -hello?”

“I would highly recommend you use a potholder next time,” came a gravelly voice, dry with irony.

Sam nearly cried with relief at the sound of his friend. “I take it you got my message, then.”

“I did,” Castiel said, sounding tired in a way that Sam felt to the core of his soul and beyond. How much did he really know about what went on with Cas and his brothers and sisters, anyway? Did he really want to know? How much was the angel withholding from them to keep them safe? To keep himself safe?

“ _Sam_.” Castiel's voice was terse and clipped, and embarrassed, Sam realized he hadn't been listening. He also realized, with a glance down at the frying pan, that he'd allowed the vegetables and meat to burn. Sighing, he opened the trash can and began to scrape them into it. He'd have to start all over.

“Sorry,” he admitted. “I spaced out.”

“This is hardly the time to space out,” Castiel snapped at him, so fiercely that Sam paused, blinking in surprise. “Your brother may be in great danger, I am trying to assist you, and you are in your own personal head space while making yourself supper?”

The vehemence and venom in Castiel's voice was something Sam had only ever heard him use for speaking to demons and, occasionally, his own kind when they were attempting to hurt Dean or himself. But now...this was something else entirely. This anger that he could literally feel crackling through the phone lines was meant for him and him alone, and it brought Sam onto the defensive immediately. Didn't Castiel know he was just as worried about Dean as the angel was?

“I'm sorry,” he said icily, setting the pan down on the stove with a heavy thud and bracing himself against the counter, knuckles of his other hand gone white as he gripped the edge. “Maybe I'm an idiot, but it sounds like you're accusing me of not caring about my own fucking brother.”

Castiel's voice was like acid. “Do you truly?”

“God damn it, Castiel, don't you think I've been doing everything I can to track him down? His choices-”

“Are you that blind?” Castiel hissed. “Your choices over the years have brought your brother to this place.”

Sam's jaw clenched tight. “I've known you a long time, Castiel, and since Dean needs both of us, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.” There was silence on the other end of the line, and Sam pulled the phone away from his ear with a snort. _An angel of the Lord just hung up on me. Classic._

The soft rustle of wings in the kitchen a moment later didn't make Sam turn. He knew, intuitively, who would be standing there, and calmly brought the pan to the sink, beginning to wash it out. Over the sounds of the tap, he said, “Rough day, I'm guessing.”

Castiel's question was quiet when it came, and it was one that Sam was not expecting. “Do you believe that I am a sinner, Sam?”

Carefully, Sam finished rinsing the suds off the handle and dried the pan, trying to think of a way to answer the angel. He didn't know what exactly constituted a sinner, but he was fairly certain that if Castiel was trying to compare himself to his brothers and sisters, he was far from one.

“I believe you're doing the best you can in shitty circumstances,” he eventually settled on. “You've always tried to see the best in others and do what you thought was right. If that means you're a sinner, Castiel, then maybe Heaven and Hell aren't so different from each other.” Sam turned away from the sink at last, meeting the angel's weary, saddened gaze as he voiced a thought he'd been keeping for a long time. “Either that, or not all angels and demons are what their forms make them out to be.”

Castiel, for his part, did not doubt it, but he said nothing, choosing to ignore the steadily growing pains within his own form. As much as he yearned to disclose the true source of his earlier disgruntled state with Sam, he knew that to do so would bring more sorrow that the younger Winchester did not need. But years of living as a hunter had alerted Sam to the minute details of when someone was lying, and he knew immediately that Castiel was no exception. One slim brow rose, and his voice was even as he spoke. “I'm sort of thinking that there's more to you randomly wanting to kick my ass today than meets the eye.”

Castiel's head slid into one hand in a show of surprising defeat, even as his own voice took on a hardened edge. “Please do not ask me for further details, Sam.” Sam was quiet for a moment. “I'm trying to help you,” he at last offered testily. “I hate to dredge up the past, but Dean told you when you were working with Crowley that you should have been honest in the first place. If we're going to help my brother now, I need to know if there's anything that's going to get in the way of that. You have to be open with me, Cas. There's no way around it.”

Sam jerked in surprise as Castiel rose swiftly, the motion lending to it a quality that was reminiscent of the angel preparing himself for battle. On instinct, Sam tightened his body into a defensive mode. Castiel, however, had something entirely different in mind.

Sam gaped as two black wings slowly unfolded in the center of his kitchen. They were massive things, stretching from one end of the room to the other, and even then brushing up the bottom edges of the walls. At any other time, Sam might have been fascinated, but now he just wanted to know what the angel was doing. And when a Winchester had questions, they asked for answers.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam sputtered in shock, as he watched the plumed tips curl in on themselves. It may have been only his imagination, but he was certain he saw Castiel stumble slightly before replying, “You have asked me to be honest with you.”

Sam frowned. “And showing me your wings is accomplishing that how?” Castiel stepped closer, his wings shifting with him effortlessly—although, Sam noticed, the angel seemed to be a bit breathless when he spoke, as though he were in pain. “What do you see?”

Sam's gaze swept over the magnificent appendages briefly before he shook his head. “They look fine tome.”

“Examine them again.” Sam doubted that would change anything, but if Castiel thought it would help...

This time, he used a hunter's sight, and suddenly, his eyes widened as he saw the true extent of the damage Castiel had meant to reveal. “Cas, you're—Jesus, you're freaking _molting_.”

The barest shudder ran through the angel's body, causing the feathers to rustle with a sound like flesh against silk. “I am aware.”

“How long has this been going on?” Sam demanded, crossing the room to investigate the wings further. If he'd thought things looked bad before, they were horrendous from a scant few feet apart. The feathers were bedraggled and hanging loose, what Sam could only assume had once been a lustrous indigo shine reduced to a dirty, drab gray, and in some places it appeared there were whole patches missing. He shook his head in disbelief. “Did a couple of your family members corner you?” he asked worriedly, gently touching a bald area near Castiel's right shoulder blade.

Castiel drew in a sharp breath, his knees nearly buckling, and withdrew from Sam immediately. When Sam blinked again, the wings were gone, as though they'd never been visible. “The Grace I stole is destroying me,” he said heavily. “An angel cannot take another's life essence without dire consequences.” The crease between Sam's brows deepened as he finally began to understand. “You're dying, aren't you?”

The gaze that Castiel leveled on him then was dull, hopeless, and the saddest Sam had ever seen in his life. “Yes, I am. And there will be no resurrection for me this time.”

*

Footsteps moving nearby instantly roused Dean from a troubled sleep, and he silently slid a hand under his pillow to touch the hilt of his angel's blade, curling his fingers around it in wait for the intruder to show himself. As they came closer, Dean carefully slipped off the couch and curled into a crouch, ready to leap.

“Good morning.”

Dean blinked. Aira stood over him, offering a steaming mug of coffee. Slowly, the other man stood to full height, taking the cup and peering into it. It was perfectly made—just this shade of blonde, and Dean could taste the two spoonfuls of sugar when he licked the rim to retrieve a stray drop. “Uh, thanks,” he said cautiously, a bit embarrassed, and Aira smiled. “You are quite welcome.”

As he sipped, Dean watched the angel move about the cabin, turning on a few table lamps to shed some light, as the day was damp and cloudy with a forecast for heavy rain. In his gray sweater and dark blue jeans, he could have passed for a human, and that in and of itself was enough to give Dean much pause. Aira was just another angel in his book, but there was something different about him. Dean supposed having all of your angel mojo while the rest of your brothers and sisters were helpless and fighting for their lives was enough to give you a guilt trip of a lifetime, but that wasn't it. Or maybe it was. Maybe that was exactly what made Aira so different from the other angels he'd met. The worry lines on his face; the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes; the way those eyes twinkled when he laughed and flashed when he was angry. Dean wondered how long Aira had served in Heaven, and what it had done to him. He also wondered what kind of damage had been wrought by his time spent on earth trying to escape Metatron's orders to kill Magdalena and then, the demons chasing him to end his life for his refusal to do so.

“Your thoughts are very loud, Dean.”

Dean startled, spilling a bit of the coffee. Cursing to himself, he swiped his hand across his pants leg and muttered, “Forgot that was a neat little trick you guys had.”

Aira's eyes were gentle. “They are also plain to see on your face,” he said softly. “Much troubles you.”

“Nothing you'd be interested in,” Dean retorted, and Aira frowned. “You think not? I have much in my heart I regret.” His eyes dimmed. “We are more alike than you care to acknowledge.”

Dean peered at him. “That so?” he said carefully. “You want to explain what you mean?”

Aira leaned against the wall, lightly folding his arms, but the gesture was not off-putting or malicious, and neither was his tone. “You still harbor doubts about whether to trust me or not.”

“Damn right I do,” Dean said without preamble. “I don't have a lot of trust about this entire endeavor you're having me go on. Why I'm listening to you is beyond even me,” he admitted. “Usually I would have told you where to go and how to get there by now.”

Aira inclined his head with a somewhat wry chuckle. “That I agree with you wholeheartedly about,” he said, and then sighed. “I have no reason to lie to you, Dean. I am the last of my brethren that still retains my Grace, and as such I will be hunted by both sides. Demons, as you have aptly pointed out and have seen for yourself, will want to 'hand my ass to me', and Metatron, as we are both aware, has no love for anyone but himself.”

“And Magdalena?” Dean pressed ruthlessly. “What about her? How do I know that whole story isn't just a big setup? I'm not going to risk my ass just to get killed in the end.”

At last Aira seemed to be losing patience. Sharply, he said, “Would I know as many details as I have explained to you if I were lying? I do not lay myself bare, Dean; I am not a fool. Yet you seemed to be someone I could trust. It appears I have been wrong. You have become cold and careless, and the prospect that a young girl may die because of your stubbornness makes no difference to you.”

Dean set the coffee down on the table between them with a loud thunk, most of it slopping over the edge, and rose, fury standing in his eyes.

“Listen, pal, you don't get to accuse me of being cold and careless. I don't see you running to your family and attempting to give them a solution to their brokenness. What kind of an angel doesn't give a fuck about what happens to the rest of his brothers and sisters while the world goes to shit--while they're human and can die in as many ways as you can think of in twenty seconds? And as for stubborn, don't even get me started. I know it when I see it, and you're the most stubborn motherfucker of them all.”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew so cold and thick you could have cut it with a knife, and Aira's eyes narrowed. “It would seem your time with Castiel has taught you nothing about watching your tongue, boy.”

Dean returned the harsh gaze. “I speak my mind when I see the need to. You want to smite me for it, go right ahead. You won't get far in your little endeavor without me.”

At that, Aira visibly relaxed. “What makes you think I wish to use you?” he admonished, but his voice was sad. “I ask only for your help, seeking nothing in return. Has the world turned on you so much that you are so suspicious of everyone and everything?”

For a moment, Dean's eyes stung, but he forced the lump in his throat down and away, gritting out, “When did you want to leave?”

Aira sighed softly, knowing the conversation was over. “As soon as you feel you are ready.” “I'm fine,” Dean barked, and scooped the Impala's keys off the coffee table. “Let's go.”

*

The day was becoming cooler with the threat of rain as man and angel traveled the long, winding highways. Aira, it seemed, had said his piece, and Dean could not come up with anything worthwhile to speak about. He didn't know what the outcome of their journey would be, and while he had faced such odds before, for some reason, this time it caused him great trepidation. He couldn't put a name to the feelings that stirred in his gut, but they were unpleasant, and they frightened him more than he was willing to admit. At last Dean was forced to pull over at a gas station near the Kansas/Nebraska line to fill the Impala's hungry tank, and as he shut off the engine, he turned to look at Aira, whose eyes were fixated on the lean, tall older man who stepped out from inside his booth to assist them.

“Got a problem, dude?” he snapped, running low on patience, and unnerved by the look in Aira's eyes. It was the same one Castiel used to get when he was sizing up potential threats. “Never seen a full-service station before?”

“Dean, turn on the car and drive away immediately,” Aira ordered quietly.

“I barely have enough to get to the end of the lot,” Dean balked, though at this moment, he was ready to push his car back onto the highway if that was what it took. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Do it,” Aira insisted urgently, but the attendant was already at their window.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” the man drawled, leaning against the hood. “Cash or credit?”

“Cash, fill her up, unleaded,” Dean said, and the man gave a nod, turning away. “You got it.”

“See? He's harmless,” Dean muttered out of the corner of his mouth, as he watched him whistle to himself while attaching the hose to the Impala's tank. Still, the feeling of unease only grew stronger.

“Dean Winchester. Well hello, lover.”

Dean's blood curdled at the words, and he was already trying to pull away by the time Abbadon's fingers curled around his chin to hold him in place, blood-red nails scraping against his cheek. His skin prickled with disgust.

“Hi, bitch,” he growled. Her hold tightened. “Now, is that any way to greet your queen?”

“You're not queen yet. And you won't be as soon as I stick my-”

“Now, don't get hasty, lover.” Her lips were at his ear, and he couldn't help but squirm in rage. “I don't give it all up on the first date. Besides, that sorry excuse for a hatchet isn't going to get anywhere near this body.”

“What do you want, Abbadon?” he spat, desperately wishing he could turn his head to see if Aira was all right. He did manage to send a glare at the “gas station attendant”, who simply stared at him through coal-black eyes, a smirk plastered on his lips. She chuckled. “Oh, just some information, sweetheart. Here's the deal—you tell me where that prophetess is hiding herself, and maybe I won't let my pals snap the neck of your friend over there.”

“Shove it,” Dean said shortly. She released him only to thrust him headfirst into his own steering wheel. Seeing stars, Dean forced himself to snap out of it and dragged himself from the car, struggling to stay upright. Aira was surrounded by five of Abaddon's cohorts, who were ready to leap as soon as she gave the order. Aira, to his credit, looked extremely calm as she walked up to him. And why the hell didn't he just use his mojo to blast them all to kingdom come, Dean thought wildly.

“So you're the one,” she mused. “The little fledgling that didn't fall.”

“I am,” he said clearly. “And you are the whore that rose from the pits of Hell.”

Dean inwardly applauded the guy's serious amount of balls, even as Abbadon hissed and drove a fist into his solar plexus, leaving him searching for breath, which made Dean blink hard. _He's an angel. Angels aren't weak like that. Not ones that have all their juice._

“You want to play dirty?” she spat, and Dean froze as an angel's blade gleamed in her hand. Her gaze landed on the man, and she snarled venomously, “Let's see the famous Dean Winchester match wits with Fate.” And she drove the blade into Aira's stomach.

The sound the angel made as Abbadon ruthlessly twisted the blade, then pulled it free, was one Dean would never forget for the rest of his life. She smiled cruelly, wiping it on Aira's own jeans before stashing it back in her jacket. “So long for now, lover. Of course, by the time we meet again, you'll be worshiping the ground I walk on.”

Before Dean could reply, she and her goons had vanished, but that didn't currently matter to the hunter as he scrambled to his knees beside the angel, who had crumpled to the ground, and pressed his hands to the wound. Aira literally whimpered, and Dean flinched. “Shh,” he said gently. “Easy...”

Aira curled bloodstained fingers around Dean's wrist. “You must take me to him,” he said, his breathing labored. With each word, more blood oozed from between Dean's fingers, and if he moved them just so, he could see a bluish-white light seeping from the edges of the point of entry. Cold chills raked down his spine, for he knew all too well what that meant.

“Take you to who?” Dean asked bleakly. “We won't reach Lexington for another hour, tops. And when we get there, we don't know anyone.”

Aira's green eyes were full of agony, but he managed to speak again nonetheless. “Your soul will guide you, if you allow it. All you must do is drive.” Dean stared at him, concern and the bitter taste of guilt making his voice sharp. “And what about you? You're freaking dying on me, here.”

Aira smiled painfully, and this time when he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “I will manage. But if I do not make it, Dean—sometimes death is only the beginning of a greater good.” Dean wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't say so, instead gathering the bloodied angel into his arms and heading back toward the car.

*

_“Juan? Juan, vengo pronto!”_

The female voice calling him frantically sent John Graves running from the garage, where he was working on his nineteen sixty-five black mustang convertible, back to his house immediately. Inside his living room, he found a young Mexican woman standing by the bookcase, the look of terror on her face sending him into warrior mode immediately. He had known her for only a year, and in that year he had seen how strong she was on all levels. Yet now, he had never witnessed her so terrified.

 _“Qué es? Qué pasò?”_ he said quietly yet firmly, taking her by the shoulders. Already he could feel her shaking, a slow, steady tremble working up from the soles of her feet. Her brown eyes were bright with fear as she spoke breathlessly.

“They have found me.”

His heart tripped on itself, and he slid his hand behind the copy of Don Quixote that rested on his shelf. As he had expected and prepared for, his hand closed around the cool steel hilt of his angel blade. “Are you sure of this?” he asked, his words wound as tight as a string. “We are tightly warded.”

Fearfully, she placed her hand over his mouth as the sound of footsteps were heard on the front porch. “Do not speak,” she begged in a whisper. “Even now they come.”

The screen door, weathered by years of use, creaked open, and a fist began to pound on the inside wooden door, followed by a strong male voice calling out. “Hey, open up! I know you're in there, Amox, and I've got one of your brothers dying in my arms out here!”

The two inside spun to look at each other, confusion, wariness, and disbelief etched into their expressions. The pounding continued, and the voice grew angrier. “Open the hell up, or so help me, I will shoot this lock out and walk in myself!”

“How does he know your true name?” the young woman beside him asked, and John shook his head, reeling mentally. “I do not know. But we cannot go by what we says. If this is a trap-”

A sudden deafening gunshot made the woman shriek and duck behind him, and then the door swung open to reveal a blonde wet with blood not his own. In his arms he carried another man who was frighteningly familiar, and the woman watched as her friend's face drained of all color. The blonde waved one hand at them haphazardly, in which he held a .45—which was a feat considering he was still attempting to carry Aira. “I warned you I'd shoot your damn door in. Now where's your couch so I can put him down?”

When no answer came, he barked, “I've got a nearly dead angel here! Somebody tell me where the nearest soft surface is!”

The woman stepped forward after a moment's hesitation, her voice soft and gentle as a spring breeze. “Follow me.”

“No!” In an instant, John was between them, his eyes aflame with worry. I have not built my new life to have it destroyed so thoroughly. “I will not allow this.”

Shocked, both Dean and Magdalena stared at him, and then, Dean's lip curled. “Well, what do you know. Apparently it's my day to meet a bunch of dicks. Death has this guy by the balls, and you'd rather let him die.” His eyes gleamed with barely suppressed fury. “Maybe I should have aimed better through the door and tried for your heart.”

John's nostrils flared with a mixture of anger and frustration. He knew what the man must be feeling, and he felt deeply for his companion's needs, but to open his home and his heart again would invite suffering and distress he had tried for so long to hold at bay—and had succeeded in so doing. He could not afford to have everything torn from his grasp.

“ _Señores, por favor!_ ” The woman had placed herself beside Aira, examining his condition. When she looked up at them both, her saddened gaze put them to shame. “Why must you act as uncivilized beasts? I beg you, allow me to make him comfortable without your prejudices and fears getting in the way.”

For a moment, the men hesitated, and then the blond said with a sigh, “My name's Dean Winchester. Aira told me to drive here. He said one of you would help him.” John swallowed, but then said tightly, “We have little to offer him in the way of medicine.”

The woman turned to him, her gaze vulnerable yet steady, and he snapped, “Absolutely not. I swore an oath until my death, and I intend to uphold that promise.” Dean looked from one to the other. “I don't have a freaking clue what you're dropping hints about, but I'm not untrustworthy,” he snapped. “And I'm not a danger to either of you.”

John scoffed at that. “You used your gun to enter my home, and you say you pose no threat to us?” Dean scowled. “Only because you refused to let me in. You can't say I didn't give you fair warning.”

The man's face flushed, but as Dean stepped forward, he at last moved aside, allowing him to follow the woman into the spacious living room. It was artfully decorated, the hunter noticed, as he carefully laid the angel on the dark brown couch he saw, feeling only slightly sorry for the bloodstains that would need to be scrubbed out of the fabric later. Native American prints hung on the walls, and a beautiful large dream-catcher, more than likely hand woven, was propped up on a pedestal in one corner of the room. On the shelves lining those walls were Oriental vases and antique statues of Greek gods and goddesses, and he had an impressive library, the three-tiered bookcase towering to the ceiling with everything from Dostoevsky to the Grimoire.

The woman watched him quietly, and Dean at last turned to her. “Where's your first-aid kit?” “You know that will not help him,” she said softly, and Dean stiffened, the long-buried yet all too familiar mental image of watching countless others die because of his mistakes rearing its ugly head. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I don't see either of you volunteering your skills, if you've even got any,” he sneered.

“I do.”

The low voice was John's, and Dean turned. He stood in the doorway, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, looking weary and sad. “Long ago I determined that my gift was a curse instead of a blessing,” he said heavily. “The day I came to that conclusion, I forfeited to myself my right to use it. I have not done so since.” “Why did you decide it was a curse?” Dean asked, and John's eyes grew shuttered. “That is something I also forfeited the right to speak of.”

“Look,” Dean said brusquely. “I'm not stupid. I know you were an angel once. I know your real name, and I have an idea of what you went through when the rest of your buddies crashed to earth with you. What I don't know is what role you're playing, but we can't stand around wasting time. Aira's dying, and if you can't help him I have a feeling that some serious shit is going to go down. He directed me here, so what's your plan?”

For a moment, the man hesitated, and then said, “My true name is Amox, as you've discovered. I was one of Heaven's finest scouts. When Lucifer began his descent into darkness, I quietly tracked his movements and followed him without his knowledge. I soon realized that what he was planning could have repercussions for eternity.”

“Why do I think I'm not going to like this?” Dean's voice had risen, every nerve suddenly on edge. Amox threw him a grim smile. “More than likely you will not.”

Walking over to where they all stood, he pulled over a nearby ottoman and sat on it, staring down at Aira as he continued to speak. “Lucifer was searching for a precious stone. His intent was to have his blacksmiths melt it down and fashion it into a pendant, one that when worn would bring incalculable power to the creature upon whose skin it lay upon. I relayed this information back to my superiors, and they formed a trap for Lucifer, which he fell into. After his banishment to the Abyss, we thought his devious plans had ended.”

“They didn't, did they?” Dean said, and Amox shook his head, looking more weary than Dean had ever seen anyone appear. “No. He did indeed manage to create the pendant. It fell to earth upon the neck of an angel, but he managed to escape Lucifer's hunt for him.”

“Wait,” Dean said angrily. “You mean there's one of your people walking around down here with the freaking One Ring hanging from their throat? How do we find them?” Amox did not answer, which Dean took for a sign of helplessness. “Well, that's just goddamn peachy,” he snarled. “You want to tell me what this has to do with her?” He jerked his head towards the woman. “Aira told me to come to you, but I also had to find a girl named Magdalena Herrera, and damn fast. She had the gift of-”

Aira's head whipped up, and his eyes were full of fear. “Please,” he begged hoarsely. “Say no more.” But it was too late. The woman's gaze had become fixed on Dean. “What did you say?” she asked, very quietly. Dean peered at her, his gaze searching. “I'm looking for someone named Magdalena Herrera. Or at least, that was her name at birth. Do you know her?” “I am she,” was the timid answer.

Amox turned away, unable to bear the weight of the revelation, and Magdalena placed her hand on his shoulder. “I have tried my hardest to protect you,” he said in misery. “I swore that your true identity would never be revealed as long as I remained alive. And now that has been compromised.”

“Why have you tried to protect me so?” she asked, and Dean rounded on Amox. “You never told her?” he spat, and Amox rose, his gaze hardening. “Of course I did not. Would you be able to bear the weight of such a curse at a young age?”

For just a moment, Dean was vividly reminded of Sam and the horrific visions he had suffered what seemed lifetimes ago now, but he steeled himself and said coolly, “She deserved to know.”

“Then you may be the one to break the news to her, for I cannot place this burden on her shoulders,” Amox snapped, trembling slightly. Dean was about to open his mouth, but then he remembered Aira's words. “ _With the Sight comes a great price_.” Did he really want to be the one to ruin Magdalena's life? It wasn't going to be peaceful much longer, true; but was it worth it to destroy what little she had in the moment? For fuck's sake, he was awesome at ruining the lives of everyone else. And sooner or later, if Aira had been right, she would learn on her own what was going to happen.

Instead, he said again, “Where's this necklace, Amox? Something tells me you know exactly what happened to it.”

After a tense moment, Amox reached inside his shirt and pulled out a long, slender black cord. Attached to it was a vibrant green teardrop stone, and Dean stared in disbelief, very aware that his mouth was hanging open like he was a fish out of water.

“There are three lives that hang in the balance,” Amox said quietly, “not two.”

*

Sam opened the door to his bedroom, padding downstairs, and halfway into the hallway he smelled the rich, earthy scent of brewing coffee. Castiel must have been up for a few hours already, he thought, stifling a yawn, and continued on into the kitchen, where he found the angel leaning against the counter, slowly sipping a mug of the steaming liquid. Another sat beside him, the sugar and cream already waiting.

“Thanks for staying, Cas,” Sam said, as they stood beside each other. “I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess. It's just...” He paused, mouth drawn downward and eyes averted. Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch meant to reassure the man as much as it was to comfort himself.

“I understand,” he said quietly. The heaviness in his voice let Sam know that Castiel, too, was concerned for Dean's safety and frame of mind, perhaps in ways deeper than Sam would ever truly grasp. The two shared a bond that, for all the jokes Sam constantly made about it, he knew was strong and, it seemed, unbreakable. The angel had to be wrestling with his own ideas of how to handle Dean and his slow slide into the darkness of the Mark. For a few moments, the two simply stood there sharing coffee, and Sam wondered if Castiel was conscious of the fact that he was gently kneading tension from his friend's nape. Either way, it soothed him and gave him a much-needed measure of comfort.

As they walked down the hall and entered the library, Castiel stopped and gazed at the files spread everywhere for long moments. A myriad of demeanors flickered in his eyes, but at last business surfaced.

“I was less than compassionate during our last discussion,” he admitted, pulling out a chair to sit. “Tell me everything, if you would—from the beginning.”

Sam did the same, trying not to focus on how alone he felt.

“It all started after Dean got the Mark from Cain himself. He wouldn't share what was in his head or how he was doing--not that he ever has anyway, but still-- and then he started taking cases alone, that sort of thing. And then this...obsession with the blade started. He's been bringing it everywhere, even to minor skirmishes. He can't put it down, Cas. And when I ask him to, he outright refuses. I offered to lock it up for him at one point and he threw me a look like I'd just suggested we torture an infant.” Sam bit his lip. “I don't know what to do. I've tried to get through to him, and nothing is working.”

He looked down at the table, a shine to his eyes. “I told him a few weeks ago that we weren't brothers, not really, and I wouldn't try to save him like he's saved me so many times, but I—it's not true, Cas. I love him, and watching him become this...monster...hurts, so much.” He met Castiel's gaze again, a lost, forlorn look on his face.

“What if we can't save him?” he whispered. “I don't want to kill my own brother. I won't be able to go through with it.”

Castiel reached out and laid a hand over Sam's own, squeezing gently. “I care for Dean as well,” he said softly, “and I will not rest until I have found a way to release him from Cain's mark. The road will not be easy, Sam, but we must try. Don't dwell on the negative aspects of this situation. Attempt to think positively.”

“I'm trying, Cas,” Sam said quietly. “Believe me, I'm trying. We've just been down this road so many times before where one or the other of us gets in a mess. But the thing is, it's never been this bad. We've always had each others' backs, and this time...” Sam paused, his gaze heavy and sad. “I feel like if something were to happen to me, Dean wouldn't know or care. And maybe that's partly my fault because of the things I've said to him, but I also blame the Mark. It's changing him in horrible ways, and I have to find a way to stop its effects before I lose the brother I have. The person Dean is now isn't who he really is.”

Castiel had listened to Sam's entire explanation, and when the younger man was finished, he said quietly, “Dean is changing rapidly. The Mark of Cain was designed to wipe all humanity from the one upon whose skin it lay. Your brother's soul is bright, Sam, and he is a fighter, but I fear that the longer he retains the Mark, the more cancerous his soul will become, until-” Castiel abruptly broke off, and Sam looked him straight in the eyes, forcing his voice to be steady as he asked, “Until what, Cas? Until we have no choice except to let him go his own way, or worse, drive a blade through his heart?”

Castiel's sad gaze was answer enough for Sam, and he swallowed a sudden rush of bile, putting his head in his hands as his eyes stung with tears. “I want to help him,” he whispered. “I have to help him. I can't just abandon him, Cas. It's not right.”

“I would never advocate abandoning Dean,” Castiel said firmly. “There are spells that can hold him for a time. They are complicated and precise, and one mistake will cause consequences, but for now they are our only option until we find other routes to take.”

Sam raised his hands helplessly. “I'm not going to fight you, Cas. At this point I'm all ears, no matter what.” He sighed. “I'm just sorry that it had to come to this. I know how close you and Dean were. It's got to be killing you to see him this way.”

For just a moment, a grief so intense and terrible surfaced in Castiel's eyes that it took Sam's breath away. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, and the angel pulled a thick, heavy tome across the table, saying only, “My fight is no longer with the man himself.”

*

Dean heard the screen door open behind him, but he didn't turn from where he leaned against the porch railing, nursing a cold beer. The warm summer night teemed with the sounds of crickets and tree frogs all around Amox's property, and it really wasn't a surprise when Magdalena's soft voice drifted up to him on the perfumed evening breeze.

“I find that many men are unwilling to share the truth, even thought it will save the one they care about most.”

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who she was referring to, and Dean at last pulled his gaze from the shadowy front yard so that it landed upon her upturned face. “He really hasn't told you anything, has he?” the hunter asked, and she shook her head. “He fears it will cause me pain. I do not know why.”

The look of bewilderment in her eyes made Dean all the angrier at Amox for his foolishness in choosing to hide something of this magnitude from her. On some levels, he understood his reasoning, but this was a literal life and death battle. At one point or another she was going to have to be told the harsh reality of her situation. And if Amox was unwilling to do so... Dean shifted so that he was more comfortable against the porch railing. “Do you believe in guardian angels, Magdalena?”

Her expression softened. “Oh, yes. When I was very young, my mother would often tell me that I had a beautiful female watching over me. She said that this angel had guided her throughout her pregnancy and was the reason I was healthy and strong, and this heavenly being would be with me throughout my life. Numerous times I have felt her presence, but I have never seen her form or face.”

Dean took this in for a moment. “When did you figure out what Amox is—or was?”

She trailed a hand along the wooden planks of the railing, worn smooth by the years and by weather. “It was last year, shortly after the skies opened and reports of so-called meteors falling began to cross the airwaves. I found him behind this house in a tangled mess of broken branches and leaves, and upon my approach he barely noticed me. When I knelt by his side, he was severely wounded, and only then did I see the charred set of wings spread out below his form.” She paused. “I took him into my home and nursed him back to health. When he was alert enough, I coaxed him into revealing the true nature of what he was to me. He shared that he was hunted for being in possession of a certain necklace. We have vowed to defend each other ever since—I from his evil brothers, and he from anything that would trouble me.”

Dean was silent for a while. So Amox did have the necklace and was responsible for what had happened with it, in a way. The pledge of protection was a nice touch, the man thought drily—as long as Amox didn't tell her exactly why he had to do the protecting and what, exactly, he was protecting her from. “Anything that would trouble her” covered just about everything, Dean snorted to himself.

“I'm guessing you never asked him what he was trying to save you from all this time,” he said, and Magdalena's brow furrowed in confusion. “I assumed it was to keep me safe from his brothers and sisters that sought to destroy us in revenge for their fall from grace,” she said slowly. As she continued to gaze into his stony face, she took a step back. “Is there more?”

Her voice, tiny with uncertainty and a touch of fear, almost made Dean rethink his choice. But it was past the time of keeping secrets. “I think you know the answer to that,” he said brusquely, and she stepped back once again, fear open on her face now. “What are you trying to say? I have never-”

“How many visions do you get in a day, Magdalena? A week? A month?” A gasp fled her lips, and she whispered, “How do you-”

“Because from what I can gather,” Dean went on, undeterred, his voice slightly cold, “you've been having them for a while, and they're only getting worse. Every time they occur, you remember things--things Amox has been trying to keep you in the dark about. But he can't keep you from thinking about it late at night when he's asleep and you're still up. You pace the floor of the library as quietly as you can and try not to wake him, because you know he'll ask what's wrong, and you can't bear the thought of him finding out what's really going on with you.”

Tears were sliding down Magdalena's tanned cheeks, and she said in a quivering voice, “He does not know about the Sight—or at least, that I know of.”

 _And there's the million-dollar answer,_ Dean thought. Taking a pull from the beer, he said, “Aira brought me here because of you. He was dying and needed the help anyway, but he said that you were born with the Sight. He told me your guardian angel had tried to protect you as you got older, but was forced to wipe your memory to keep you safe. Unfortunately, your memory's started to come back, and along with that, so has your...gift, for lack of a better word. Am I right?”

She bowed her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “I can no longer control what I see, or when the visions occur. Amox has said I often stir him in the middle of the night with my cries, and when he comes to my aid I beg him to alleviate the pounding in my skull. I do not remember these times.”

“So you're getting migraines, then?” This sounded like Sammy's visions all over again, only to a deeper, much more threatening degree. She nodded. “I suppose you could call it that, yes.”

Dean set the now-empty bottle on the railing and leaned back, crossing his arms lightly. “There's more to all of this crap, but I don't know if you're going to want to hear it.”

She opened her hands, palms up, in a gesture of weariness. “What more can you say that will be worse than what you have already told me?”

 _Oh, honey, you have no idea._ Dean's faint smile was grim as he stared into the distance, unable to really look at her as he spoke the words that could (and probably would) destroy her life.

“You're a prophetess, Magdalena. You have the Sight because we're all waiting for you to speak a specific prophesy. No one knows when it will come, or how it will be spoken, but we have to watch for it and monitor you closely. If we don't, and demons get a hold of you before it comes tumbling out, they'll do anything and everything they can to get you to speak it before your time. And believe me when I say that they know exactly how to get an unwilling person to talk.” Dean forced down the bile that rose up in his throat at the thought, and steeled himself, meeting Magdalena's gaze.

She looked absolutely calm, much to his surprise. Her brown eyes were clear and steady as she spoke, her voice never wavering. “I do not fear them.”

Dean shook his head. “Don't be a martyr. I know you want to be tough, but it's okay to be frightened. Hell, if I were you I would be.” He paused. “There was a time when I was frightened, Magdalena. I would have given anything not to have to be in this fight and to live a normal life. But I'll never have that choice, no matter how much I might still want it sometimes. You do have a choice. You can let us protect you. There's no reason why you need to feel like you have to fend off all the evil that's coming after you on your own.”

She continued to stare resolutely at him. “I am not a schoolgirl, Dean Winchester. I do not require constant monitoring as though I am fragile and liable to shatter like china at the first sign of danger. I do not expect you to understand how I feel.” Dean let a ghost of a smile play across his lips, the memory of Jo Harvelle and their first hunt together forever cemented in his mind. _Still not letting me live that one down, huh, Jo, even from up there?_

“Oh, I understand more than you think.” Sobering, he said, “Once you're in this, you're in deep, Magdalena. Demons play hard, and they play for keeps.”

Her expression was slightly hard around the edges. “So do I.”

*

Crowley's lips curled up in a sneer as his henchmen stood before him, one cringing slightly with the news they had brought.

“Well, isn't that just darling,” he spat. “Dear Abbadon's gone and jumped into the hole too. Now we've got to worry about the bitch chomping at the bit with the rest of us.”

“Can't we just eliminate her, sir?” one of the demons, named Anderson, ventured, and Crowley stared at him incredulously, eyes blazing. Anderson flinched, knowing he'd crossed the line.

“Eliminate her?” he asked in rage. “Are you stark raving mad? This is Abbadon we're talking about! The Queen of Hell and, need I remind you, currently the most powerful demon on earth, loathe as I am to admit it,” he added bitterly. “Eliminating her”-- he stalked closer to Anderson --”means coming up with a plan for which I haven't yet figured out the details of!”

“Sir? Can't we use the Winchester to get to Abbadon?”

It was the other demon who had spoken, and Crowley smiled, walking over to him to slip an arm casually around his shoulders. “That would be an excellent idea, Marcus, but you seem to be missing some cogs in that wonderful little chamber upstairs. You see, dear old Dean is already trying to kill the wench.” His hand tightened almost painfully on the demon's shirt. “So thank you for the idea, but I won't be using yours, either.” The dangerous meaning was clear.

To his credit, Marcus didn't react. His ink-black eyes were calm and collected as he stared up at his boss. “His brother is going to try and stop him, you know. It seems like taking him out would give Dean a free pass to concentrate on Priority One—killing her.”

For a long moment, Crowley simply stared at him. Then slowly, very slowly, he smiled, angling the two of them away from Anderson. “Walk with me, boy. I think you and I have some very important business plans to discuss.”

*

Amox remained on his knees beside the couch, breathing heavy and labored, trembling with exertion. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat; pooling in the dip of his spine. Aira would live, but the toll it had taken on his savior was great. Such was the price he was forever forced to pay for his choice.

He knew Magdalena had ventured onto the porch after Dean hours ago, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man had already told her the truth Amox had been so desperately trying to protect her from. Well, there was nothing to be done for it. She was aware, and now all that mattered was keeping her alive. The soft snick of the screen door made itself known, and Amox drew in a ragged breath, forcing himself to rise on slightly unsteady legs and approach the kitchen. He could hear voices from inside, and within it, he saw Magdalena and Dean softly talking. Upon his approach, they stopped.

Amox stiffened slightly. “Don't feel you must interrupt your conversation on account of me,” he said tightly, and Magdalena gazed at him with a calm sort of authority in her eyes that Amox had not seen before. When she spoke, he heard it in her voice as well.

“I now know who I am and what I must do. I will see through to the end any and all consequences that come with it, and I will not be shamed when the time comes to face my destiny.” Amox's breath caught in his throat, but before he could speak, another voice was heard from the porch.

“Well, aren't you a brave little darling.”

Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and something very close to nervousness as they roved over the new arrival, who wore black slacks and a gray dress shirt complemented by a black blazer.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?”

Amox rounded in hatred on Dean. “You dare to bring a demon under my roof? A spawn of Hell; a vile, filthy, godless viper with the blood of innocents staining his hands?” he hissed.

Crowley seemed amused. “You've got quite the vocabulary, I see. And Dean-my, my, what a rousing turn of events this has become. I hardly expected you to bring the angel I sent you to slaughter home for dinner.” He stopped at the threshold of the door, but went no further, an eyebrow lifting when no one moved. “Wards,” he said emphatically.

 _“No,_ ” Amox spat, but Dean only looked at him sharply. “He's not here for you.” To Crowley, he said coolly, “Give me a minute,” and stepped outside onto the porch, returning a few moments later, replacing a Sharpie in his jacket pocket. “You can enter now,” he said casually.

“I believe I shall, thank you very much.” With a shit-eating smirk at Amox, who was fuming, Crowley strolled into the kitchen. Immediately he wrinkled his nose. “This dècor has got to go, love.”

Meanwhile, Magdalena had been staring at him in a mixture of apprehension and fascination, and Crowley stopped by the broad island in the middle of that kitchen, leaning with his back to it as he gazed at her. “So you're the little maiden that's so very important, eh?” he said, and Amox tensed beside her.

“I am,” she responded, with more force than even the demon anticipated. He chuckled. “Apparently you're also quite the little spitfire.” He seemed amused for a few moments more, but then his demeanor abruptly changed. He took her chin in his hand, surprising everyone there. Magdalena herself froze at his touch, but Crowley's gaze was unbreakable as he spoke softly. “You'll need all of that fire you can muster for this fight, little one. And even I have my doubts that will be enough.”

Amox roughly pulled her away from the demon. “She will not be alone, hell spawn.” His eyes locked on Dean, and Crowley turned to face him. The look in his eyes this time was clear.

 _Abbadon and the Mark, boy. Remember, you want her dead_.

Dean shook his head. “Sorry, Amox. I won't be joining you on this hunt.” Both Magdalena and the former angel looked shocked. “What do you mean?” Amox demanded. “I was under the impression you had come here to assist us. Have you lied?” he said through clenched teeth.

“I have my own agenda,” Dean said coarsely. “It doesn't involve a young girl and her visions of the world crumbling to pieces.”

Magdalena seemed hurt at first, but then her expression turned into one of cold anger. She stepped forward, her gaze boring directly into Dean's soul as much as her words did. “You are a coward, Dean Winchester. You serve only your own interests, and in the end they will come back to desecrate you.”

The man shook off the sense of foreboding that descended upon him, and said simply, “Maybe,” before turning and heading down the porch steps with Crowley towards the Impala, the demon leading.

He was halfway there when a set of hands grabbed him and shoved him back against a nearby willow tree's trunk with a resounding thump.

“The fuck?” Dean spat out, as he caught sight of Amox's furious face in the rapidly deepening night, backlit by the moon. “Get off me.”

“You will not leave her,” Amox snarled. “You gave her your word.”

“No, I didn't,” Dean snarled back. “If you thought that, it was your deception, Amox, not mine. I have bigger plans.”

Amox's fists tightened, and in an instant he'd pushed Dean away, further into the yard, the lightning bugs scattering around them as the former angel growled, “I would advise you to stay.”

Dean's heart began to race with the familiarity of the Mark's calling, and he smiled wolfishly. “Are you saying you'll _make_ me stay?”

Amox's only response was a slight repositioning of his body. Dean recognized it for what it was—a fighter's stance—and leapt at once. Amox was the first to land a blow, his fist connecting solidly with Dean's stomach. The man grunted, but was undeterred, coming at him next with a right hook that sent Amox tumbling into the grass, blood on his split lip. At the sight, Dean's own sang high with the promise of victory, and he snarled viciously, attacking now with all the fervor the Mark had to offer. Somewhere, he was dimly aware of someone screaming, but it wasn't until hands were throwing him aside that he blinked, coming back to himself.

“What--”

Crowley stood above him in the gravel drive, eyes coal-black, his expression furious. “Get up,” he hissed. “And don't waste any time. You may have killed the bastard.”

Dean's heart lodged in his throat. He started forward, but Crowley's fingers closed around his arm in a vise-like grip, and now his voice was a whisper, sending images of torture and certain death the likes of Alistair's through Dean's mind if he didn't comply. “ _Do as I say_.”

Numbly, Dean took the keys Crowley shoved into his hand, and the last sight he witnessed in his rear-view mirror as he peeled out was Magdalena, kneeling beside Amox's prone form as she shrieked and sobbed.

*

Crowley looked over once more at Dean as they sped along the highway towards Wyoming. The man hadn't spoken since they'd passed through Omaha almost three hours ago, and it was still nearly an hour and a half, if not two hours, until the end of their trip. The demon sighed, wondering how much longer he could endure the silence. “Is there a problem, Crowley?”

Dean's voice was a snarl, and Crowley gazed at him in consternation. “Oh, nothing at all. I'm just curious as to how much longer you're going to hold your pity party for one, considering it was you who wanted to leave the headstrong little miss behind.”

Dean sent him a look from the corner of his eye, one that would have sent anyone else heading for the hills. “Damn right I did. I don't have time to be playing in another sandbox. Abbadon is my only priority.”

Crowley examined him, entirely focused on the young man who drove. It was clear that Dean's mind was all-encompassed with thoughts of the Mark and the Queen of Hell, which was all well and good. Still, he had to cover all his bases. If there was the slightest chance remaining that Dean would not fulfill his part, then the other side of Crowley's plan would quite literally go to Hell in a handbasket.

“Not to spoil your fun, chap, but when you find this irreverent whore, you do know the means of sending her back to where she belongs, don't you?”

An unfamiliar, dark fire lit in Dean's eyes, and his hand slipped to the cloth-wrapped bundle lying by his right thigh on the Impala's seat. “Of course.”

Even his voice held an unforgiving edge, sending a pleasant shiver down Crowley's spine that he did his best to hide from Dean. Crowley turned away to stare out the window, smiling to himself. Yes, everything was going quite according to plan, it seemed. “Well, then, it appears there's only the finding left to do.”

“Do you want to clue me in as to why she's decided to take over one of the legendary places in the city?” Dean growled out. “The Historic Plains Hotel doesn't seem that forbidding.” Crowley shrugged. “The aura of power about it from the ghosts come before, I suppose. Or perhaps she thinks it will afford more protection. Either way, I'm sure that she's wrong on both counts. The First Blade was designed to destroy her, and destroy her it shall.”

If it were possible, Dean's eyes darkened further. “You're just the scout on this, Crowley. You're not my right hand man, and you don't get to call the shots. You certainly don't have the authority to follow me into that building and then switch sides. If you do, I swear I will practice torturing Abbadon with all the skills I learned from Alistair and then use them on you. Then, and only then, will I send your sorry ass back into Hell for the rest of eternity. Are we clear?”

Gazing at the man in the breaking rays of the dawn, Crowley didn't doubt it. And for the first time, the demon wondered if perhaps he had overplayed his own hand. But his only reply was, “Quite.”

*

“Sir? You have a visitor waiting for admittance.”

Blue eyes, cold as steel and just as sharp, looked up from over a large mahogany desk stacked neatly with paperwork and a notebook computer, a bottle of Absolut Vodka and two tumblers placed neatly on the other side. “And who is this visitor, Amphras?”

The female demon that stood in the doorway smiled thinly. “She asked me to relay to you that if you wished to be the head of such a major company, you would do well to get better looking receptionists.”

At that, a low chuckle left the throat of the other demon.

“Let her enter.”

Haughtily, Amphras stalked back down the hall, and a few moments later there was the sense of another presence. The male looked up, and a calculating smile spread across his face as he rose slowly.

“How kind of you to once again destroy the self-esteem of my staff,” he said softly.

Abbadon shut the oak doors behind herself, locking them with a flick of her hand before approaching him. “I only told her the truth, lover. It would make more sense—and be much better for business—if you actually employed girls that didn't resemble the creatures their meat-suits are housing.”

“Tell me,” the other demon said, hemming her in against the front of the desk as his gaze bored into hers, “how many others do you call 'lover'?”

She looked up at him, her smile coy. “Why do you ask?” “I'm inclined to believe I am one of many in your line of conquests.”

Her lashes lowered slightly, eyes flicking to coal, and she said softly, “Oh, I wouldn't say that.”

“Then perhaps you should show me,” he said softly, and bent his head. She let him maul her mouth for only the briefest of moments before she pulled away with a laugh, twisting out of his reach.

“Asmodeus, when are you going to learn? I don't mix business with pleasure until the deal is complete, and so far,” she added, her gaze darkening in a way that had nothing to do with lust, “you haven't delivered.”

Asmodeus's eyes gleamed as he stared at her calmly. “I always deliver, my dear, but it isn't always on your time.”

“Well, start making it on my time,” Abbadon snapped. “I have a schedule to keep and a Winchester to tear to pieces.”

Amused, Asmodeus arched a slim brow. “What is one man to me? I have many under my thrall.”

Abbadon's coy demeanor was back in an instant, and she wound his gray tie around her fingers, playing with one of the cuffs of his black blazer with the other. “Didn't I mention, sweetheart? This man has an angel following him around like a puppy. And unless I'm blind, there have got to be some very good opportunities for you there.”

Abbadon watched as Amodeus' eyes went from playfully bored to highly interested in a manner of seconds. “Does this angel have a name, pray tell?”

She leaned up until her lips were mere inches from his own, breathing out, “Ask nicely.”

Instantly, he'd caught her by the throat and slammed her back against the desk. “A name, my sweet.” His voice was little more than a growl, now.

“Castiel,” she sputtered around his hand, and the pressure was gone immediately. She glared at him as he returned to his desk and poured himself a tumbler of Absolut. “If that leaves a mark, you can explain away the awkwardness.” He simply stared at her, boredom once again apparent in his gaze. “I have what I need. You may go.”

Abbadon's return gaze was filled with rage. “You wouldn't have anything if I hadn't come here, you ungrateful prick.” Asmodeus simply sighed.

“As always, your fury erupts before you fully understand what will be. The angel will die.” “And the Winchester that's been a pain in my ass?” Abbadon spat.

Asmodeus smiled cruelly, holding the tumbler up and watching the play of light dance in its contents. “How many ways would you like me to dismember him, my dear?”

*

Sam rubbed his hands over his face, his eyes gritty and raw, and tried to ignore the way his back screamed at him due to sitting in a chair for so long. The night had worn on while he wasn't looking, and he realized it now that it was very quiet, the only sounds the slight settling the old bunker seemed to do while no one was aware. Castiel had long ago made good on Sam's offer to rest, choosing to arrange himself on Dean's bed in a mass of soft white sheets. When the younger man had checked on him earlier, he had been sprawled comfortably amidst them, his wings tucked close around his form like a nesting chick, and it had taken Sam a moment to digest what a powerful testament this was that even Castiel felt the need for sleep. It was a sign that the Grace he had stolen was slowly but surely eating away at him, as he had said. In that moment, Sam had also realized that the trust Castiel had chosen to impart to him by revealing his wings had also left him with a very rare gift—he could now see the angel's wings even when they were not, so to speak, on a physical plane. The only reason Sam had become certain of that fact was by stepping up to the bed and touching one of Castiel's outstretched wings. His hand had slipped through what felt like a mixture of air and electricity, and it had left him humbled and shaken, leaving the room as quickly as he could without waking Castiel.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered what the point was in all of this. He knew they had to save Dean, but the possibility that things might end in another bloodbath was nearly too much for Sam to dwell on. Wearily, he pulled the book he had been studying towards him again, forcing down a yawn. He was halfway down the yellowed page before a paragraph caught his eye, and he frowned, peering closely at the faded script. He read it once, then again, and stood up so fast he knocked the chair over in his haste, sending it clattering to the floor.

“CASTIEL! Castiel, wake up!” he bellowed, tearing through the library like a hellhound on the heels of its prey.

The angel met him in the hallway, tie askew and his hair sticking up in odd tufts that would have been unbearably adorable at any other time. “What is it?” he asked roughly, gripping Sam's shoulders to shake him slightly as his gaze seared the Winchester's soul.

A cautious excitement shown in Sam's eyes. “I think I might have found what we need,” he said.

“Show me,” Castiel demanded.

Together, they headed back down the hall at a hurried pace. Once they'd reached the library again, Sam grabbed the book and pointed. “Right here,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, and Castiel leaned over his shoulder to read. The text was in Turkish, and it took a moment for Castiel to translate the language. The knowledge that he could no longer use his skills as rapidly as he once did was unnerving, but now was not the time to dwell on such things. “I've figured it out to a point,” Sam said, “but I don't know the language that well. What does it mean?”

Castiel spoke, the mysterious words curling in the air and around his tongue. “ _Bir adamin eliyle, kӧtϋ akacak, ve bir adamin ruhu tarafindan, yasum maşamak zorundadir... '._..with the hand of a man, the wicked shall bleed, and by the soul of a man, the innocent shall live. ' ”

Sam's throat went dry at the sentence. For reasons he couldn't explain, it sent chills down his spine. “That sounds like a prophecy to me.”

Castiel gripped the edge of a chair, his knuckles white. “It does indeed.”

The tone of his voice and his body posture set off red flags in Sam's brain immediately. “Castiel? Is there anything you haven't mentioned that would be a good thing for me to know?” he said edgily.

Castiel refused to meet his gaze. “In all of your research, have you ever come across the name Dumah?”

Sam frowned. “No, it doesn't sound familiar.” As Castiel's shoulders sagged, Sam's heart began to race beneath his ribs. “I'm guessing I should start searching immediately.”

“It will do you no good.” Castiel at last looked up, and the heaviness in his blue eyes was frightening to see. “He is the angel of Death.”

Sam felt as though all the air had been punched from his lungs, and he was forced to take a step back as the stark reality of the situation hit him. “The angel of Death? My brother has the freaking _angel of Death_ on his ass?”

"Unfortunately, yes,” Castiel said. “I am certain you remember your Death?”

Sam stilled immediately, feeling chilled. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, memories flooding him, not the least of which his most recent encounter, and the ensuing debate concerning his crossing over. “Why are you asking me, Castiel?”

Castiel's words hit Sam squarely in the chest, even spoken as quietly as they were. “Death was not merciful, Sam. I above any other am well aware of this. But Dumah...he puts him to shame. He comes solely to punish the souls of sinners, and punish them harshly. Your agony is his manna.”

Sam felt anger rise within him, cresting like a wave, followed by a rush of terror so strong he thought he might vomit. “Dean isn't a sinner,” he said sharply, perhaps frantically, but Castiel's eyes were sad. His lack of an answer made Sam's jaw tighten.

“You agree with Dumah's philosophy, then?” he asked stiffly, and Castiel sighed wearily. “I did not say I did. But Sam, you must understand—Dumah cannot be underestimated. He will let nothing stand in his way.” Sam's eyes were steely. “He hasn't met me yet.”

“And you have not met him,” Castiel snapped, at last losing all patience. “You know nothing of who he is. He does not speak—his name in itself is the Arabic term for silence. He will give you no warning of his approach, and when you at last realize it is he that has come, it will already be too late.”

Sam studied him. “It sounds like you're speaking from experience, Castiel.” His voice was hard.

Castiel leaned against the table and closed his eyes. He suddenly seemed very tired, and not for the first time, Sam realized how very old he was. His next words were shocking. “I have known Dumah for millennia. It was he who destroyed the firstborn of Egypt thousands of years ago.”

Sam's mind reeled. “I thought you said that Dumah punished sinners. How were Egyptian boys sinners, Castiel? How the _fuck_ ,” he gritted, eyes watering in rage and grief, “is a ten-year-old boy a sinner?”

The angel shook his head, the very picture of helplessness. “You cannot stop him, Sam.”

Sam's gaze was fierce. “Watch me, Castiel. I'm going to find a way if it's the last thing I do.”

Castiel's eyes opened, and there was nothing but bleakness in them. “Then I would suggest you start by praying.”

“We have the text,” Sam argued, trying to remain calm. Castiel couldn't possibly be giving up now. “I know it's not much, but we've got to work with what we have. Dean-”

“So you're Castiel? I would have expected you to look more...fearsome.”

Both angel and man spun at the new voice. Blocking the entrance to the library were four hulking demons, their coal-black eyes gleaming with the promise of pain. But Sam's attention was focused on a shorter demon who had broken ranks with them, his casual gaze and posture betraying the very real threat underneath.

“What do you want?” Sam spat. “How did you get in here? The wards-”

The demon smiled lazily. “Let's just say they were.. _.unfinished_ in a few spots.” Before Sam had time to contemplate what that meant, Castiel stepped forward, his voice like a low rumble of thunder.

“Leave this place.”

The demons eyed him up and down, seemingly amused, and their appointed leader spoke with a chuckle. “I'd say I'm scared, but that would be a lie. Since you lost most of your power, you're just a husk, Castiel. A shell of the angel you used to be. And we both know that taking all of us out at once would kill you.”

Sam glanced at Castiel, watching as the angel's jaw tightened. _So it's true_ , he thought. _Castiel really is deteriorating, and it's happening faster than I thought_.

“Which means,” the demon continued with a smirk, “you'd be useless in a fight.”

The air seemed to crackle with electricity around them, and Castiel's blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “Would you like to test that theory?” he growled.

“Oh, I didn't come for you,” was the lofty reply. “Crowley said to tell you he misses his Moose.”

Sam had a wild moment in which he tried to dodge before a meaty fist slammed into the back of his skull, and everything dissolved into darkness.

*

Dean pulled up across the street from the Historic Plains Hotel in Cheyenne, turning the Impala's engine off. He didn't move, however, choosing instead to simply sit there and stare at the tall building. It didn't escape Crowley's notice that his fingers were rhythmically stroking the handle of the Blade beside him, which was now unwrapped, and the demon smiled. “You haven't lost your nerve, have you?”

In response, Dean drove an elbow into Crowley's solar plexus. The blow had unexpected raw power to it, and it made the demon let out a croak. The Winchester's expression was terrible to behold.

“If you taunt me again, Crowley, I'll make sure that before I walk into that hotel, I leave you choking on your own intestines. Now stay in the goddamn car and don't move.”

Crowley watched Dean stride purposefully over the asphalt, the First Blade stowed safely inside his jacket, and once he was inside the building, the demon pulled out his cell phone. It took one ring before the call was answered, and he said, “News?”

“It's done, sir. He's here, and”—a curse was heard, followed by what sounded like things being broken, and then a sigh from the other end of the line. “As one would expect, he's pissed.”

Crowley's lips turned up in a grin. “That sounds like Moose. Well, the sedative's there if you need it. Just keep his enormous frame away from my Oriental vases, yes? Those are from the Ming Dynasty.”

“Yes, sir.” Crowley ended the call, then leaned against the Impala's hood, feeling satisfied as he shaded his eyes and gazed up at the Plains Hotel. Everything was in place. Now, all that was left was for Dean to seal the deal.

*

Dean gazed down dispassionately at the bodies of the three men that had been guarding Abbadon's door. They'd been humans, just unwilling pawns on a chessboard, but that didn't matter to him anymore. They were working for her, and anyone that stood in his way of ending her life had to go.

It barely registered that the hand he used to open her elaborate suite was bloodied, and he did a quick sweep with his eyes for signs that any of her lackeys might be nearby. However, he saw no one, and he swiftly stepped inside, closing the door nearly silently. It was easy to locate Abbadon. She was seated on a plush red velvet couch overlooking the city, her back to him, and Dean could barely contain the rising bloodlust he felt. _Oh, sweetheart, you made this so easy._

He raised the Blade, bringing it down in one fell swoop, but suddenly, without turning, Abbadon spoke.

“Tell me, lover, once you killed me, what were you planning on doing next?”

Dean set his jaw, barely checking the swing. “Sorry, honey, but I'm not here for discussion.”

Abbadon rose, her lips quirking. “That's too bad, because we were hoping we could arrange a truce.”

Dean spun at the inclusion of the word “we”, the First Blade held tightly in his grip. A taller man with close-cropped brown hair, chiseled features, and steely ice-blue eyes leaned casually against a nearby table, his arms folded loosely. Dean peered closely at him, murky images straining to surface in his mind. “Do I know you?” he asked sharply.

The man smiled, but it was one devoid of any mirth. “You do indeed, quite well. We were...business associates, you could say, quite long ago.” Dean's eyes widened slightly at that, those images finally coming into focus.

“Asmodeus?” he breathed out. “What are you doing topside?”

The demon turned to the liquor cabinet behind him and withdrew a tumbler and a bottle of bourbon, pouring himself a glass before raising it slightly in a toast, eyes glittering.

“I've come with a certain proposition.”

*

Castiel painfully rose to his feet, his body screaming with the trauma the demons had inflicted from their beating of his nearly-human form, which had left bruises and bloody cuts. His wings, which they had forced to manifest with a spell, were tattered and torn in places where they had brutally ripped out some of the feathers, and he was fairly sure that one of the smaller joints near the spine was sprained, if not broken. To make matters worse, Sam Winchester had been taken.

With a deep, steadying breath, Castiel began to fold his wings back into the invisible world. It was the only way they would heal ( _if they were able to_ , a nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered). He could not contain the scream that fled his lips throughout the process. The agony of it was blinding, enough to make him stagger forward and grip the edges of the chair nearest him to stay upright. At last, the torture over, he forced himself to breathe normally and think of how, exactly, he would rescue Sam from Crowley's clutches.

The demon's messenger had said that he was not interested in Castiel himself, which would mean that Crowley apparently either wanted Sam for his own devious plans—which had always amounted to catastrophe in the past—or had been working with Dean throughout this entire time and wished the man to be out of the way in order that the older Winchester might fulfill his destiny as the true son of Cain. In either case, it was a horrifying scenario, and one that the angel had every intention of stopping, no matter the cost.

*

Slowly, Dean circled Asmodeus, unwilling to let go of the Blade just yet. He'd learned the hard way over the years that letting his guard down around demons was never a good idea.

“What kind of proposition are you interested in?” he asked shrewdly, and Asmodeus set his drink down casually.

“I believe it would be better suited to all of us if that nasty weapon wasn't in the way of negotiations, don't you?”

Dean laughed shortly. “Nice try, but I'm not stupid. I know exactly what kind of 'businessman' you are. I was in Hell for forty years, Asmodeus.” His eyes grew dark with remembrance, and he lowered the Blade slightly, something that, unbeknownst to him, Abbadon was watching closely. “I stood at that rack with Alistair for ten years and carved up souls like I was a butcher at a meat shop. I had my hands so deep in blood, spleens, and hearts that I forgot what it was like to do simple trading.” His gaze flicked to Asmodeus, and the demon noted that the man's eyes were nearly black, the green all but disappeared. He spoke calmly.

“I am still in the business of 'simple trading' as you phrase it. I only ask that you join me in two certain endeavors of mine.”

“What do these endeavors entail?” Dean challenged, and Asmodeus said simply, “Firstly, I have need of a certain angel by the name of Castiel to be put to death. And secondly, I want the traitorous wench in this room dead.”

Abbadon's entire body stiffened at the last request, her eyes ablaze. “You fucking asshole,” she snarled at Asmodeus. “You swore to me you'd tear him apart!”

Neither of the two paid her any mind. Asmodeus watched Dean, gauging his reaction. He'd been briefed on the changes the Mark of Cain had wrought in Dean by Abbadon, and he was curious if they would have any effect on the hunter. Dean stood quite still, his gaze flicking between the Knight of Hell and Asmodeus. Outwardly he appeared calm, but internally, he was a seething storm.

 _I can't kill Cas. He's my friend...he's been there for me when no one else was. He's helped heal Sam. He pulled me from Hell and took away my nightmares when they refused to go away on their own._ Yet...

_But he also betrayed me. He swallowed the souls and became God. He broke my brother's wall when Sam needed him most. Even though I asked him to, he took away Lisa and Ben's memories. He could have stopped me and encouraged me to tell the truth. Instead he fed into my circle of lies. He worked with Crowley. He let himself stay in Purgatory and added to my guilt. He's avoided me since he came back. When he was a full angel he threatened over and over again to make me play by the rules or he would throw me back into Hell. And then to top it all off, after everything that's happened, he stole another angel's Grace and has been on the run since. Can I really trust him? Should I? Dare I?_

Dean looked from Asmodeus to Abbadon again, his eyes cool, calculating, and then made his decision. “You've got yourself a deal, Asmodeus.”

Asmodeus gave a nod. “I'm pleased you chose the right path.” He cocked his head, examining Abbadon. “What of her, then?”

Furious, Abbadon stalked forward, spluttering, “I will rip the both of you to shreds with my bare hands! As for you, Asmodeus, I'm going to make you regret we ever met, you self-absorbed, lying son of a--”

In one swift movement, Dean had drawn the Blade up and across her throat violently. She choked, blood streaming down the black sweater she was wearing, and she stumbled to her knees, fear in her eyes as she gazed up at Dean. He stared down at her in disgust, watching until she crumpled to the floor.

When he turned, Asmodeus was leaning against the table again, an eyebrow raised. Dean wiped the Blade on Abbadon's jeans before stowing it back in his jacket pocket with a scowl. “What are you doing standing around? I thought you said we had plans.”

*

Sam twisted this way and that in his chair down in Crowley's basement for what seemed to be the hundredth time, very aware of the male and female demons guarding him watching his struggle in clear amusement. He clenched his teeth as the ropes restraining him still refused to give, choosing instead to talk.

“Why did you bring me here?” he snapped. “I'm nothing to you.”

The male demon snickered. “I guess being shaped like a sycamore tree left you with no brains,” he grinned. “You're of more use than you know.”

His companion chuckled at that. “He's right,” she purred. “Crowley is going to have a field day with you.”

Sam spat, “What the hell does he want? I don't have a damn thing that would interest him.”

“What about your brother?” the male piped up, his eyes gleaming. Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he snarled viciously, “Leave Dean out of this.”

The female laughed, the sound like sweetened poison. “Oh, he's already involved, honey; didn't you hear? Little miss Abbadon bit the dust earlier this afternoon thanks to him.”

For an instant, Sam forgot how to breathe, the words ringing in his head. _Abbadon was dead._ That meant only one thing, and it was something he had hoped he would never live to see.

He knew his stricken look must have been showing on his face when the male jeered, “I guess you didn't get the memo. Oops.”

“That's enough now, children. You've had your fun; let Daddy have his.”

Obediently, the demons backed away, and Sam looked up at Crowley with sheer, unadulterated hate in his eyes. “I'm going to slit your throat for this, you son of a bitch. Whatever you did to Dean--”

“Oh, hush.” Crowley waved him off, then gave a nod to the two demons, who suddenly made themselves scarce as their leader pulled up an old stool and sat on it, gazing at Sam idly.

“I haven't done anything to Dean.” He smiled. “Per se.”

Sam hissed, “ _Per se?”_

Crowley heaved a sigh, looking for all the world as though he was attempting to explain how to add one and one to a very small child.

“Your brother has the Mark of Cain, Moose. I know it, you know it, and your friend Feathers knows it. We were all aware that sooner or later it would drive him to do something absolutely, monumentally stupid—such as slaughtering that bitch in cold blood.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Don't screw with me, Crowley. You wanted her dead.”

“Of course I did,” the demon snapped. “And I wanted Dean to do it—at least initially. But now he's out of control. He's going to take over my entire empire.”

While the thought chilled Sam to the bone, a small part of him couldn't help but think that it was fitting. He smiled coldly. “Payback is a bitch, Crowley.”

Crowley's lips curled up in an ugly sneer, and he leaned into Sam's personal space. “I watched him nearly beat a man to death in Nebraska,” he said simply. “I've seen firsthand the change the Mark has wrought in him. Don't let yourself believe for an instant that he will feel remorse for anything he's done thus far, Moose. He wants only to feed the bloodlust inside of him that claws its way through his veins. He won't recognize you or Castiel as comrades and allies. To him, you are enemies in his path. And I'm sure you can figure out for yourself what the outcome of that will be.”

Sam swallowed hard. He couldn't deny Crowley's words, and he said harshly, “What do you want?”

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. “I want him out of my hair. Mark or no Mark, he needs to stay out of my way.”

Sam frowned. “And you want me and Castiel to ensure that happens?”

“Yes,” Crowley responded irritably, and Sam snorted. “Get someone else to do your dirty work, Crowley. We're not your errand boys.”

Crowley's expression turned ugly, and he said quietly, dangerously, “No, I suppose you aren't. But I highly doubt Dean would take kindly to the fact that his own brother and his angel don't believe in his purpose, considering that he's now working with Asmodeus to kill Castiel.”

At that, Sam's head snapped up, fear and fury in his eyes. He knew the name of the demon well, and it sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Asmodeus?” he bit out. “Dean made a deal with that prick?”

Crowley smiled nastily. “Desperate times, desperate measures, my boy. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” He vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving Sam reeling.

 _Castiel_ ,he thought frantically. _Dean is hunting Castiel. I've got to find a way to warn him_.

Armed with a new resolve, Sam began to work at the knots holding him to the chair again. One way or another, he would free himself. The angel's life—and his brother's soul—were counting on it.

*

Amox came to slowly, disoriented and in pain such as he had not felt since Falling. He made to rise, but only made it halfway before the world spun in circles around him, and he groaned, reaching out wildly for something, anything, to hold onto.

A warm, strong hand caught his, and then an arm wrapped around his waist, steadying him as a soft, calm voice was heard near his ear.

“Careful, brother. You've suffered quite a concussion. It's not in your best interest to attempt to sit up.”

 _Aira,_ he thought dizzily, and ground out through his teeth, “What happened?”

For long moments, Aira remained quiet. “You do not remember?” he said at last, and Amox met his gaze, his eyes searching. “What should I remember, Aira?”

The angel looked away, his expression saddened. “Magdalena informed me that Dean Winchester was the one to place you in this condition—before he removed himself from the situation with the demon Crowley.”

At that, Amox forced himself to his feet, despite the overwhelming nausea that swept over him at the abrupt movement. “Dean Winchester?” he repeated through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body straining against the urge to _find him now_. “Where have they gone?”

Aira shook his head. “I do not know. I did not regain consciousness from your saving act—which I thank you for—until after you had been injured. Magdalena was forced to wake me.”

At the mention of her name, Amox's heart jumped into his throat, and he wheeled around to face Aira, ignoring the immediate dizzy spell it gave him. “Magdalena? Where is she?” he demanded. “Has Dean harmed her as well?” _I swear by my lost Grace, if he has, I will expend all of my remaining mortal energy tearing him to pieces._

Calmly, Aira held up a hand. “She is unharmed, brother,” he said, and some of the tension drained from Amox's body, leaving him feeling weak and shaken. But he refused to give in to the feeling, and instead said harshly, “Bring her to me.” When Aira cast a steady look his way, not replying, the fallen angel's façade crumbled, and he braced himself against the fireplace, whispering, “Please, my brother. I need to see that she is truly well.”

“As you wish,” Aira said at last, his gaze never wavering. “But know that this was not the time.”

Before Amox could try to work out what that meant, Aira had disappeared into the back of the house. Moments later, Magdalena appeared in his place, her red-rimmed eyes widening when she saw him.

“ _Juan_ ,” she whispered.

Hearing the human name he had chosen for himself undid Amox, and he wept in relief as they embraced tightly, each glad the other was alive. After long moments, Magdalena released him and touched his cheek, tracing a cut that Dean had left. “You are alive,” she murmured gratefully. Gently, he covered her hand with his own. “You doubted I would survive?”

“I witnessed what Dean Winchester did,” she whispered. “I saw how he violently assaulted you, and I could not stop the attack. You were so very still afterward...” She leaned into his palm, warmth spilling over his fingers, and a tightness filled Amox's throat. She was so very young, he thought, and had no part in this. “I'm sorry,” he said feebly, and she opened lashes spiked with tears.

“Whatever for?”

“You were never meant to carry a burden this large,” he murmured, and turned away, shoulders drooping. “I have caused this.”

Immediately she stepped around to face him and took his jaw in hand, forcing his chin up in order that she might look him directly in the eyes.

“The path I chose was of my own making,” she said firmly. “I do not regret it, Amox, and I will not abandon you in your hour of need.”

To that day, Magdalena had never used his real name, and the shock of it made the fallen angel blink. She continued, voice steady and strong.

“Dean Winchester was the one to harm you, and I intend to make him regret his actions.” Before he could stop her, she had turned and headed into the library. Hurriedly, Amox trailed after her.

“Magdalena, this is madness. Dean has chosen his path; let him follow it where he will. I see no need for us to go after him, even for my honor's sake.” Amox followed her into the library, where she turned to face him. “You did not witness the look in his eyes as he abused you.” The girl's own eyes were strong and clear. “I cannot know when this prophecy he has spoken of will come, and I fear it is one that will have repercussions on us all. Before the end comes, I will see to it that he meets his maker—whether it be God or the devil."

Amox's face was filled with a mixture of regret, anger, and sadness. “If he had not come here, I would still be able to keep you from this cycle of destruction.”

Magdalena huffed in irritation. “This cycle of destruction began when he saw fit to warn me of my destiny.”

Amox looked incredulous. “ 'When he saw fit'? He shared information with you that has caused far-reaching implications!”

“Information that you neglected to tell me yourself,” she snapped. “Information that I deserved to know and that should have been told to me a long time ago.”

Hurt flared to life in Amox's eyes, and he said flatly, “All I have done, I did to protect you. Where is my error in that?”

The soft sound of footsteps in the doorway was heard, and both turned. Aira stood there, and softly, he spoke. “All things occur for a reason, Amox. You cannot begrudge Dean his visit here, nor can you keep Magdalena from facing her life's purpose.”

Amox set his jaw. “Do not speak to me of purpose, Aira. It is not your place, nor will it ever be.”

The angel stared at him resolutely, gaze never wavering. “You have your own to serve, my friend. How you choose to handle that circumstance is solely up to you. Neither I nor anyone else can force your hand.”

Amox's eyes flashed in anger, and he bit out, “I will not become a weapon in another war!”

Aira stepped into the room, his gaze intense. “Then do not allow your anger to overshadow your ability to harness your gifts.”

“What would you know of them?” Amox spat, and Aira lifted his chin. “I fought with you against Lucifer. I know of your gifts all too well, brother-and not all of them have been used for the greater good.”

Amox's eyes widened in fury as he drew in a breath, and he stormed into the kitchen. A moment later, the screen door slammed shut.

Magdalena moved, but Aira said, “Let him go. He wishes no one near him now.”

The woman looked him square in the face. She had great courage and strength of heart, Aira reflected. “What evil has he done in your eyes that you feel he must be chastised?”

Aira returned her gaze. “There are things which even the best of men wish they can undo, child. Amox is no exception. But if he cannot overcome his past, he will lose the future.”

“And what future is that?” Magdalena asked quietly. “Is it one that I will live to see?”

Aira felt pity for her. Beneath the exterior of the strong, fearless woman lay a young girl who was terribly afraid. He reached out and gently touched her cheek. “I cannot tell. I do not have the power to measure the events that are to come. What I do know, daughter of the Sight, is that you have strength and power beyond even which you are aware. They will be needed soon enough. Do not doubt that.”

Magdalena watched him retreat into the back areas of the house, her mind spinning. It was then she noticed Amox's car keys sitting on the mantle, and her mouth set in a tight line. It appeared she would have to take matters into her own hands.

*

At last, after hours of struggling and the feeling of something slick sliding between his fingers—whether blood or sweat, Sam didn't know and didn't care—the knots holding him to the chair gave way, and the rope slithered silently to the floor. The two new demons that had been assigned to guard him were bigger and stronger, and they peered closely at him as he squirmed. _Keep talking,_ Sam reprimanded himself. _Don't make them suspicious._

“So what are your plans, anyway?” he said disinterestedly. “The same take-over-the-world crap we've been hearing for years?”

The demon nearest the door gazed at him with cold black eyes, making Sam think of peering into a slick puddle of oil. He suppressed a shudder. “If all humans are as stupid as you are, then we're going to have a problem when he's ruling Hell and enslaving your race,” he rumbled, and Sam's mind jumped onto one word: _he_.

“Who's going to be ruling Hell?” he said, feigning fear, and leaned back in his chair as the demons approached, as though he truly were terrified--which wasn't that far off the mark. But his main purpose was to get one of them close enough to douse them with the holy water so he could attack fully. As he'd hoped, the demons approached, the one who'd been speaking smiling cruelly as he leaned down into Sam's personal space.

“Your brother, obviously. The Mark of Cain is a beautiful thing.”

Adrenaline born of rage and sorrow flared in Sam's veins, and he flung the water into the demon's eyes. He screeched, clawing at his face, which gave Sam time to launch himself from the chair and bury Ruby's knife to the hilt in his gut, barely pausing to witness his death before slaying the other demon as well. From upstairs, Sam could hear Crowley's shouts and orders, and the telltale sound of running feet. As much as he wanted more information, he knew he had to find a way out or be killed.

Eyes roaming around the room quickly, he noticed a window he could potentially squeeze through on the far side of the cellar. The only problem was that it was located diagonally across from where Crowley's backup would be coming through at any moment, giving them a clear shot at Sam's back as he made his escape. He was left with two choices: stay and fight, or flee and die.

Sam palmed his knife tightly, knowing he was only ever going to make one decision, but before he could offer up a silent _I'm sorry_ in Dean's general direction, the telltale sound of wings was heard, and Castiel stood there.

“There will be no more deaths today,” he said fiercely, and touched his fingers to Sam's forehead.

*

Magdalena drove fast, often ignoring the speed limit at times, and thanked her guardian angel over and over that she was never stopped by the state police. She could not have said where she was going were she asked to verbalize it, but she knew in her heart that she was headed in the right direction, and continued to follow that still, small voice of guidance.

At last she passed a sign on the highway that informed her she was within Wyoming's city limits, and something inside her settled into a state of absolute calm. She knew it was here she would either meet her fate, become a savior, or, possibly, both—and that frightened her more than anything else she might have to face.

Driving through Cheyenne's winding streets, she passed Saint Mary's Catholic Cathedral. On a sudden impulse, she pulled into the parking lot. The sanctuary was empty when she entered, the open doors allowing the gentle summer breeze to flow through. The candles the faithful had lit flickered and bent, as if in their own form of supplication, and Magdalena softly walked to the altar and knelt, her head bowed as she struggled to think of how to pray. How did one begin to do so in a situation such as this? Footsteps to her right made her jump, and a quiet voice said gently, “Forgive me, child. I didn't mean to startle you.”

Magdalena took in the sight of the priest with his compassionate expression, and sudden tears welled in her eyes. The man arranged his holy robes and knelt beside her. “What troubles you, my child?” She shook her head. “I cannot speak of it,” she whispered, and he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It's no matter. The Lord knows your pain, and He will heal you from all that disturbs you, my child.”

For long moments there was only silence, and then Magdalena asked softly, “Father, suppose one was tasked with doing the impossible...with a destiny so large it threatened to claim them. What if they found themselves unable to accomplish it?”

The priest paused, and then said with a calm reassurance, “With God, nothing is impossible, child. Destiny is a very transient thing. Only the beginning is written, not the end. We alone have the means to change our futures; nothing is certain.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I think, child, that there are great things in you-things that you are afraid to face. Do not fear the power that is within you.”

Magdalena considered his words. She knew them to be truth, and rose. “Thank you, Father. You have cleared my mind and eased my spirit.” The man of God only smiled. “Do no thank me, child. You were aware of this all the while. I did nothing but bring it to the surface.”

“It matters little,” she responded. “You have been a guide along the path I am on, and for that, I am grateful.”

He stood as well, his eyes now bearing a weight that made Magdalena shiver slightly. “Your path is not yet full-trod, child. I fear the most difficult part is still to come.”

*

Sam knew something was very wrong the moment he landed heavily on his ass in the bunker instead of upright on his feet, and he rose to his knees, tailbone aching.

“Castiel?” he called out, still disoriented from the flight. “Where are you?”

Weak coughing to his right made Sam do a sort of crab-like scuttle to look, and immediately he scrambled over to the angel, who was half-curled on his hands and knees by the refrigerator, blood staining his lips and chin as he fought not to retch. With a start, Sam realized the angel's wings were visible again, and his stomach heaved as he tried to keep from vomiting himself. Almost all of the feathers were gone, leaving nothing but raw, exposed muscle and bone, and the little Castiel had left were drifting to the floor as Sam watched.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Sam said, carefully slipping an arm around Castiel as his ribs heaved with exertion and distress. “It's okay, man. Just breathe,” he coached, even though Sam's heart was hammering in terror at the angel's state.

“My Grace...” Castiel choked out around another mouthful of blood. “I have expended it...” He gagged, and Sam tightened his hold, saying sharply, “Stay with me, Castiel.”

In response, Castiel caught Sam's sleeve in a death grip, his eyes speaking volumes as he whispered, “Dean is the one who will bring forth the prophecy.” Sam swallowed hard.

“Is he the one who's going to rule Hell, too?”

Castiel attempted to rise at that, anger and fear in his eyes, only to be held back by Sam. “Don't you dare,” the man ordered, and then realized what Castiel's reaction signified. “You didn't know that Dean is supposed to become King of Hell, did you?” he whispered, and Castiel fought against Sam's restraining arms once more.

“We must stop him, Sam,” he croaked. “We must, before it is too late, before Dumah senses his soul and comes to claim it. Dean cannot fulfill this destiny or he will be lost forev--” A round of violent coughing interrupted Castiel's sentence, and when he was through blood stained Sam's wrists and hands. The angel drew in ragged, gasping breaths, and Sam felt his heart break. He knew that Castiel would not last long.

“Naughty, naughty, Moose. I don't remember giving you permission to escort yourself off my premises.”

Sam glared up at Crowley from where he remained with Castiel on the floor. “I don't remember asking,” he said icily.

Crowley tsked. “Why don't you play nice, eh?”

"Why don't you go fuck yourself?” Sam returned coolly.

Crowley's lips curved up in a decidedly unnerving smile. “Oh, but you can't do much, can you, Moose?” The demon looked down at Castiel, who was quite obviously suffering in Sam's arms, and said calmly, “Take them, boys.”

Sam spat and cursed every obscenity in the book, and some he'd definitely made up, as a group of demons pulled him forcibly from Castiel, dragging him over to an old pipe in the kitchen that had been left exposed and proceeded to hogtie him to it with two lengths of chain, which they then padlocked together. “What are you planning to do to him?” Sam shouted, as the rest of the demons dragged Castiel upright, the angel letting out a high, agonized cry. Sam's heart and stomach clenched in sympathy and horror at the sound.

“Oh, don't worry, angel,” one of the demons said cheerfully, as they easily pinned Castiel to the floor while he struggled feebly. “This won't hurt...much.”

Sam jerked violently in his chains as they ground the heels of their boots ruthlessly atop Castiel's wings, crushing joints, bone, and remaining feathers. The screech that fled Castiel's lips was enough to make the bunker echo, and the demons chuckled. “You aren't so high and mighty now, are you, Castiel?” one snarled. Sam blinked away tears that refused to stop flowing as he watched Castiel's eyes slowly glaze over in the wake of his approaching death. Staring at Crowley, he said harshly, “You're a disappointment.”

Crowley paused with the tip of his blade resting against Castiel's throat, seemingly irritated. “How so, Moose? Would you prefer to give me suggestions on how better to kill him?” “No,” Sam snapped. “I'm talking about your humanity.” Crowley's eyes narrowed, and the demons around him shifted uneasily. “I have no humanity, you stupid bugger.”

“Really?” Sam challenged. “Then what was that show in the church about a few months ago? You all but begged for forgiveness from your sins, Crowley. I've seen the real you, and I know there's nothing inside your soul that would be able to make you kill Castiel.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Such a sap.” Once again, he positioned the blade at Castiel's throat, and Sam went for his last, desperate shot.

“Would your son have liked to see this moment, Fergus, knowing that his father was truly a killer and not the good man he believed him to be?”

Moments passed, during which Crowley never moved. Sam held his breath. At last, the demon met Sam's eyes. They were black as night, but as Sam watched, they slid back to a dark brown (which Sam could only assume had been Gavin's eye color as well). He rose and walked over to where the Winchester was chained, gazing down at him impassively. “You're a smart boy, Moose. I have to applaud you for that, at least...before you die.”

Sam shut his eyes. _Damn it_.

In the next instant, the sound of chains being broken was heard, and Crowley was dragging Castiel's body to safety as he threw Sam a very old, very powerful-looking dagger. “Well, what are you waiting for, you bloody idiot?” the demon snapped. “You're free; start fighting!”

*

Dean looked up from his perch on the desk as Asmodeus stalked into his library. Observing the highly disgruntled demon, he smirked. “Oh, that foul temper can't be good for the ladies. Crowley get the better of you and turn good? I would have expected you to kick his whiny little ass any day at treachery. I guess he does have a soul after all.” Asmodeus turned into the light, clearly revealing that his eyes were a bright amaranthine, brimming with hatred.

“Need I remind you that I am still very much able to remove you from the playing field?”

Dean hopped lightly off the desk, strolling up until he was nose to nose with the demon. His voice was soft. “You could. But if you ask me, I don't think you have the balls to do it, or I'd be back in the Pit by now. Either you need me for something, or...” His eyes darkened, and he stepped even closer, his voice now a low growl. “You're afraid of me, Asmodeus. Isn't that right?”

For just a moment, it appeared the demon was going to argue, but then, his gaze flicked back to normal, and he took a step back, his lids lowering. Dean's lips curved up in a slow smile.

“Well, what do you know,” he drawled. “The master gives way to the pupil.”

“There are still legions of demons at my disposal,” Asmodeus spat, and Dean smiled again, looking very much like a cat that had swallowed a canary and was trying to hide the fact. “Did I say that was a bad thing?”

Asmodeus cocked his head, and Dean picked up the First Blade from where it had been lying on a nearby table, caressing its handle as though it were a lover before lifting his gaze to the demon's again. His eyes were nearly black, dark irises eclipsed by green rings, and his voice was a low rumble when he spoke, the excitement barely hidden within it. “I'm a hunter, Asmodeus. So let's go hunt something.”

*

Sam slashed through one demon after another, his fury at losing Dean and the panic over Castiel's near-death state lending him a strength and speed he had never known. When it was over, he scanned the immediate area for Crowley, and upon not finding him, yelled, “Where the hell are you?”

“In here.” Crowley's voice was weary, and Sam hurried down the hall to where it emanated from, emerging into none other than Dean's bedroom. Fitting, he thought mirthlessly, that Castiel should meet his end in the place where his closest ally and friend had lived his life. “How is he?” Sam asked, but the moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew that they were pointless. Castiel's form was far too still, and his face was pale, blood staining his clothes. The angel's once magnificent wings, Sam noticed, were no longer visible, and the Winchester frowned.

“What happened to his--”

Sam's stomach turned over as Crowley held up a handful of ash, black as the night sky, and he sat on the chair at Dean's desk heavily. “Shit,” he breathed out shakily. “Shit, shit.”

Crowley met his eyes bleakly. “Seems it's hit the fan, Moose.”

“Is he dead?” Sam blurted. He was terrified to know the answer, but he had to. If Castiel was truly gone, then so was any hope of bringing Dean back. Even if they could reverse the effects of the Mark, Sam knew his brother wouldn't want to go on without Castiel.

“Not yet. But he will be soon if we don't do something to stave off the Reapers that I can see in every corner of this bloody room.”

Crowley glared at the door, and Sam spun in his chair. Seeing no one, he turned around again to stare at the demon, his expression flabbergasted.

“They sent _Reapers_ for Castiel?”

Crowley sighed, but it was without its usual ire. “Of course they did. Standard protocol.”

“I thought...” Sam floundered. “I thought angels got a different ride home,” he stumbled.

Crowley's eyes were weighty. “He isn't exactly an angel anymore, is he, Moose?”

Sam didn't know what to say to that, and for long moments the two stared at the creature that lay between them on the bed, once a pillar of strength and power, but now a beaten, broken shell that was quickly passing from this world. Sam clenched his fists. There had to be some way they could stop this.

To Sam's surprise, Crowley suddenly said softly, “My son deserved better.”

Sam said evenly, “What are you talking about?” He suspected this had something to do with his comment from earlier, but he had to know for certain.

Crowley's lips turned up in a bitter smile. “I had a family, and I decided to sell my soul instead of being the man I was meant to be, living out my days as a mortal, raising my child and dying of old age like everyone else. The only other chance I had to see Gavin, I very nearly mucked that up too. For all I know I probably did; kid mustn't want the King of Hell for a father. Who would? Bit of shame, that, to carry around in your pocket, after all the things I've done.” Crowley looked away, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and Sam said after a moment, “Do you feel guilty, Crowley?”

“Guilty?” Crowley leveled him with a blistering stare. _“Guilty_ doesn't begin to cover what I feel, Sam. I've walked this earth for hundreds of years, and during those years I've bartered and entrapped millions of souls in exchange for everything from greed to lust. I didn't think a damn thing of it until I saw my son again.” His eyes glistened, and he said softly, “That boy will die one day. He will not live forever, and I can't make it so. I will never be able to make up for the time I've lost being such a stupid fool. Do I feel guilty, Moose? Yes. Yes, I bloody well do feel guilty, and there's no way to atone for that. My sins are unforgivable; do you understand?”

Sam said softly, “You can't fix the past, Crowley, but you can change the future. I told you I saw humanity in you at the church, and I still stand by that. You're not a monster.”

Crowley turned away. “Bollocks,” he said quietly. “There's no one left to offer me redemption, even if it were possible. God is dead, Moose.”

“I'm not,” Sam said simply, and held out a hand. Crowley looked at it, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” “Offering you redemption,” Sam replied, and held his gaze, waiting. He knew he was taking an enormous leap, but their options were running out. They needed all sides with them, and Sam refused to believe that the demon was lost. He had seen too many miracles in his life to become that calloused.

Crowley swallowed. “I'm not--”

“Not what, Crowley? Worthy of forgiveness? Don't frigging go there, because none of us are. But we can win this fight if we start thinking we are,” Sam snapped.

Crowley's eyes drifted to Sam's hand again, and his jaw clenched. _Just take it_ , Sam willed him fiercely. _You're human, Crowley. I trust you_. 

He hadn't realized he'd spoken the words aloud until Crowley choked out, “What?” and recoiled. Immediately Sam caught his arm, fingers tightening painfully around his wrist. “I trust you,” he gritted. “You've hurt me and my family, but that's what redemption is. It's a second chance. I'm giving you a second chance, Crowley. **Take it.** ” 

A tear slid down Crowley's cheek, but Sam doubted he even felt it. Still, the demon didn't move, and Sam had just about given up hope when a hand caught his own a few minutes later, the grip wild.

Crowley's eyes were now like steel. “What do you say to paying it forward, Moose?”

*

Sam watched as Crowley went about mixing potions and herbs in a large bowl, listening to Castiel's shallow breathing from the bed. “Can we even summon Dean here?” he asked. “He isn't a demon, is he?” Even saying the words left a bitter taste in Sam's mouth.

Crowley didn't cease his preparations. “If you're asking me if your brother still has a soul, yes, he does. Unfortunately, it's so corrupted by the Mark that what little of Dean Winchester is left is being eaten away the longer we take to get to him.”

Sam swallowed hard. “And if we don't get to him in time?”

Crowley paused, his eyes flicking to Sam. His voice was low. “You really don't want to know, Moose. Trust me on that.”

“It's a good night for reunions, isn't it?”

Sam spun at the voice, and when he saw who it was, he very nearly lost his composure. Crowley, to his credit, remained calm—although he'd had centuries of practice at that, Sam reminded himself.

“Dean,” Sam said firmly, though his heart was hammering as he observed the casual, careless attitude of his sibling and the way in which he held the First Blade. “Give me the weapon.”

“What, this?” Dean looked down briefly at it, then back up at Sam, his smile cruel. “Now why would I do that, Sammy?”

His gaze turned on Crowley, and the cynical smile became a twisted sneer. “I see we've got ourselves a traitor in our midst. And we all know what happens to traitors.”

Crowley smiled pleasantly. “You'd know best of all, chap.”

Dean's eyes widened in fury, and he snarled, “You'll die for that, you bottom-feeding slug.”

The First Blade was tight in his grip, and Sam said quickly before things could get out of hand, “How did you get in here without us performing the summoning spell?”

Dean looked at him as though he was an interesting specimen. “You really think I have to abide by those laws? I'm not human, but I'm not demon, either. I'm a whole different breed of animal.” He smiled, flashing his teeth. Sam's stomach curled in revulsion and fear, but before he could speak, Crowley did.

“Care to enlighten us as to what?” he said conversationally.

“Oh, you'll find out soon enough.” His gaze flicked to the bed suddenly, and Sam held his breath. Perhaps if he recognized Castiel, it would bring back some of his lost humanity. Dean walked over and peered at the former angel, his expression schooled. Then, in a flash of movement, he raised the Blade.

“No!” Sam shouted, but Crowley had already recited something in a language Sam didn't recognize, and the bowl in front of him ignited in a flash of light. Dean let out a yell and covered his eyes, and when the smoke receded, Sam was staring into his brother's enraged face, in which were set coal-black orbs radiating fury and hatred.

“This isn't over,” Dean whispered dangerously. Sam suddenly felt the air around him ripple and shift, and when he steadied himself again, Dean was gone.

*

Amox did not turn as the screen door quietly closed behind him, and Aira spoke gently.

“You must decide, my brother. Now is the time to make a stand or choose to do nothing.” Amox's fingers tightened on the railing until his knuckles were white, his eyes focused on the twilit yard.

“You heard what I said to you inside.”

“I did,” Aira replied softly. “But this war is not one you have helped create.”

The ex-angel's fingers drifted up to his throat, where they glided over the slim black cord that rested there—unconsciously, Aira knew. His eyes were focused on things that were not in this reality as he spoke.

“I have doubts that one such as I will be welcomed. I have done many things, Aira...many which would strike fear into the hearts of our fallen brethren if they truly knew the nature of them.”

Aira gazed at him for long moments, until Amox found he could not keep from meeting his eyes.

“What would you rather?” the angel asked quietly. “You are needed, brother, and needed desperately. Is it possible you may lose what is dearest to you? Yes. But are you willing to take that chance for the possibility of redemption?” Amox could not voice an answer, his throat tight with regret and uncertainty, and Aira laid a hand on his shoulder. “The final say is yours,” he said. “Know that I will not think any less of you for whatever path you choose.”

Nearly silently, he went back inside the house. Amox remained on the porch for a long time after that, unable to shake Aira's words from his mind. He was torn, both in his mind and his soul. His brother was correct, he knew; he had always been proven right in matters such as these. As Aira had so aptly pointed out, it was only Amox's own limitations that prevented him from assisting those in need. Once more, his hand rose to touch the cord at his throat, then slipped down to lightly grasp the pendant which hung from it. The stone warmed immediately at his touch, and Amox felt the hum of power coursing through his veins. Eyes filled with turmoil, he let the jewel drop. He could not! The last time he had elected to use the gem, its consequences had been devastating. But if you do not, a voice in the back of his mind said softly, you condemn those that would require your aid to death nonetheless. Which, he wondered miserably as he hung his head, was worse? He had but one chance to make his path this time different, and were he to turn his back on it, this outcome would be more ruinous than the first.

Amox at last went back into the house when the crickets had long ago ceased to sing, the sky beginning to turn a violet blue with the coming dawn. He was weary with thought, but he had made his decision. He thanked the gods that Magdalena was asleep and knew nothing of his inner turmoil. She had enough on her mind without having to worry about his sanity-or lack of it. Aira was resting on the couch with his eyes closed, but opened them when he heard his brother's footsteps. After gazing at him for a brief moment, he said softly, “You have made your choice.” Amox simply nodded, too exhausted to discuss the matter further, and moved to the the liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink. On his way by the fireplace, he froze in mid-step.

“What is it, brother?” Aira asked, noting his concern, and rose.

In an instant, Amox had caught the angel by the front of his shirt and driven him into the opposite wall, face a mask of fury and fear.

“How long have you known?” he bit out, but Aira stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Known what?”

Roughly, Amox shook him. “My keys, Aira! They are missing! Where is Magdalena?”

Understanding at last lit in Aira's eyes, and he said gently, “I do not know, brother. I last spoke to her many hours ago, and she gave no sign she was planning to leave without your knowledge.”

Amox let him go and turned. His tone was desperately angry as he spoke, and for just a moment, Aira was reminded of an angel with thunderous voice and brilliant plumage who had seen to the decimation of hundreds millennia earlier.

“I pray she has left of her own volition. If the hell-spawn have harmed her, they will pay.”

*

Dean breathed deep as the bloodlust receded slowly, the First Blade stained a dark crimson as he gripped it tightly in his right fist. The bodies of seven creatures lay scattered at his feet--a family of djinn that had mistakenly believed they could ambush him--and the rush after the kill was akin to a powerful orgasm flowing through his blood, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling. He'd needed this kill after the shit Crowley had pulled on him, and with a dark chuckle, he leaned against the Impala, parked in the empty dirt lot of the trucking company where they'd come for him, leaning his head back to look up at the stars. They seemed to shine down at him sadly, almost as though asking why he had committed such a terrible atrocity, and Dean grinned a feral grin.

Soft footsteps to his left made him turn abruptly, and he raised the Blade. A tall figure stood bathed half in shadow, a familiar blade in its hand. Dean smiled unkindly, his senses and nerves on edge again, the bloodlust rising once more. “Haven't you been warned not to go off by yourself? Me and angels aren't on friendly terms right now.”

There was no response, and Dean's patience grew thin--not that he had much of it these days, anyway. “Come and get it,” he smiled wickedly, and thanks to the Mark, moved forward faster than a human could have followed.

Easily, the other creature sidestepped and swung the hilt of the sword into Dean's sternum, where it connected solidly. The crack was audible in the night air, and Dean's breath left him in a painful rush, fire spreading through his veins. He was certain something vital had been broken, but he'd dealt with broken bones before, and Cain's mark would heal him effectively. He straightened, the Mark burning on his arm, effectively overriding his physical pain, and snarled. “Is that all you've got?”

Before Dean could defend himself, the angel stepped forward, driving the blade to the hilt into Dean's stomach. The creature's dark eyes were calm and dispassionate, and for the first time since killing Abbadon, Dean felt cold as he tasted his own blood, thick and viscous, in the back of his throat. A strangled noise left him as the angel pulled the weapon free, and in the dim light Dean could see his lifeblood coating the metal. Vision graying around the edges, his last sight was of the heavenly being's cold expression before he knew no more.

*

Magdalena's eyes felt raw and swollen as she pulled the car down below a hill, the sun just beginning to crest over the horizon. She was barely able to get her fingers to turn the key in order to shut off the engine, and it was a long moment before she slid from the vehicle on unsteady legs and stumbled out toward the motel, the strange feeling again rising in her gut that she was headed exactly where she needed to go as she headed for the nearest door. Her legs began to shake, and she raised a trembling fist, pounding with all of her remaining strength on the peeling blue paint. It suddenly swung inward, and a beautiful Korean woman stared at her with hard brown eyes from behind the barrel of a rifle.

“I mean you no harm,” Magdalena whispered, her vision beginning to tunnel as she swayed violently. “May I use your telephone? I must let Amox know where I am.” She had slipped into unconsciousness before she could witness the look of utter shock that crossed the woman's face as she caught her.

*

Camael stared hard at the young girl that lay underneath her sheets, her mind reeling. For a year she had been Fallen, living as a mortal and choosing to protect the human race as a hunter, and until this moment she had given no thought to the angel that had abandoned her until this child had quite literally dropped on her doorstep.

Amox had been beautiful, she remembered with a mixture of bitterness and sorrow. His wings were the color of the sands of the Sahara, and his eyes as silver as the moon. He was a Seraph; a warrior; one that was determined to protect her at any cost. He had fought for her with abandon and she had given herself to him in every way. And then came the day he had betrayed her for a stone. A stone, power, and the King of the Fallen Ones.

A soft moan from the bed brought Camael out of her reverie, and almost by rote, she took one of the many vials of holy water that she carried and splashed it into the girl's face. She choked, coughing, and before she could fully recover, Camael caught her arm and sliced it with a silver knife. She whimpered as the blood welled to the surface, and satisfied with the results that she was human, at least, Camael sat back and handed her a cloth, waiting as she applied pressure to the wound.

“Why have you done this?” she asked through gentle tears. Camael was unfazed. “I don't welcome monsters under my roof. What do they call you?”

The girl's eyes were bright with knowledge, Camael noticed. She was calm when she answered, as well, and for reasons unknown, her answer made Camael shift uneasily. “Magdalena. You, I know, have many names. What would you prefer I call you?”

“Must I tell you my name?” Camael said sharply, and Magdalena smiled gently. “I believe you know the answer to that.”

By the Heavens she had lost, she did. This girl already knew everything about her—how, Camael did not know. But it was clear she was a prophetess, and the revelation jarred her. “I suppose you know about Amox, then,” she snipped, and Magdalena cocked her head. “I do,” she said slowly. “But he has never mentioned you.”

Hurt long buried flared to life in Camael's heart. "Of course he has not. He betrayed me. Whatever would make him remember me?"

Yet Magdalena was not finished. “I do not believe he knows you are alive. If he was aware of this fact, he would have searched for you. You were his soul.”

Camael threw her a scathing look. “You delve into matters that are too profound for you.”

Magdalena regarded her coolly. “Did he not bind himself to you?”

Camael's heart stuttered in her chest, and she stared numbly at the girl as memories assaulted her.

_Amox's wings wrapped closely around Camael as they tumbled into his nest, and she laughed. “A soldier not reporting for duty? For shame.”_

_He placed his lips at her throat, gently kissing her pulse point. “My duty this night is to love you.”_

_She stared up at him as he rolled them over, slotting them together perfectly, and drew her close, their wings and bodies tangling. “ **Zirdo aala** ,” he murmured, and merged his Grace with hers, their ecstasy spiraling out of control. “I will not leave you,” he breathed in her ear. “You are my body, my love, my soul...”_

Camael forced the memory down and away, back into its locked box within her heart, and forced herself to meet Magdalena's gaze. Her eyes were cold.

“I have no wish to see him. He is a traitor to me and to his race.”

“He chose a path that was erroneous, and wishes to this day that he could change the past. We have all served our own ends and made choices that were for our own good and not to the benefit of others, Camael.”

Hearing her name from this young lady made chills run down Camael's spine, but she snapped, “He chose to steal one of Lucifer's creations and run! He chose to lie to me and destroy the trust between us. When the Fall happened, he deemed it best to break all contact with me. I refuse to believe he does not know I am alive. He cannot have lost all senses that he once owned as an angel. Even I still retain some, to a certain degree.”

Magdalena looked at her patiently. “Bitterness will impede anything,” she said softly.

“I am not bitter,” Camael said in frustration, and rose abruptly, striding over to the window and flinging open the curtain to look out upon the nearly-empty parking lot, the midday sun gleaming hot upon the blacktop. “I am simply...I...” She floundered, and unbidden, images of Amox flooded her mind—his wings; his brilliant, expressive eyes; the way he loved her at night...

“Stop that!” she demanded with a shriek, spinning to face Magdalena, who gazed at her gently. “Whatever is happening to you, I have no part in it,” she said softly. “I can only predict the future. I do not meddle in the past.”

A lump in her throat, Camael said harshly, “He wounded me. You do not understand.”

“I don't,” Magdalena admitted, voice still soft. “But he may.”

The implication was clear, and Camael's eyes grew wide. “You intend for me to meet him again?” she said incredulously. “I cannot--” She swallowed hard. “There is too much at stake.”

Magdalena rose from the bed, and Camael stumbled back. Carefully, Magdalena reached out a hand and touched Camael's trembling fingertips. “I mean you no harm,” she repeated softly, the same phrase she had used when she had arrived at the fallen angel's doorstep hours before. “I was put here on this earth to sew together that which has been ripped apart. Please, let me help you.”

Camael's eyes were bright with unshed tears, and her frame shook with anxiety and trepidation. “I cannot be hurt again,” she whispered. Magdalena smiled sadly. “A large part of love is taking the chance of being hurt,” she said gently. “That is what makes it worthwhile.”

Camael stared at her, and after a moment, curled her fingers around the younger woman's.

*

Dean groaned loudly as he came to on the rocky ground, his stomach throbbing unpleasantly and the Mark on his arm yearning to spill the blood of an angel—an angel that preferably didn't decide to play the game of stab-and-split—and he rose to his feet, spitting blood. His wound was already healing, albeit slowly, and now he yearned to find something to insert the First Blade in and _twist._

A presence at his back made itself known, and Dean's expression turned stony, his eyes flicking to coal as he turned.

“Well, you've fallen pretty damn far. Didn't think you could get any lower, but hey, a man's proved wrong every day.”

Crowley stared at him coolly. “Oh, I prefer to think of it as rising.”

“Do you now?” Dean flipped the Blade around in his grip, circling the other creature. “So what are you now? Demon? Human? Half and half? Or are you just a fucked up mutant that no one wants, not even your own son?”

Crowley's eyes glittered at that, and he said evenly, “I've made my peace with my past, boy. Have you?”

Dean laughed darkly. “I don't have to make peace with anything. I've embraced what I really am.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you come to make trivial conversation, Crowley? Because I'd rather be slicing and dicing right now than talking, to be honest.”

“Your days of obeying Cain's Mark are nearing their end, Dean.”

“Oh, really?” Dean's voice had taken on an icy, dangerously soft edge. “And why is that?”

“Because you stepped over the line, you bastard—literally.”

Dean turned slowly in place to face Sam's cold expression, and his countenance was a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.

“You got me with a _Devil's Trap_?” he hissed.

“Quite effective, actually,” Crowley said smoothly. “Especially if it's drawn on the rocks with black spray paint. Hard to see in the dark, that.”

Dean's expression was murderous. “When I get out of this,” he whispered, staring at Sam, “you will die. Both of you, in very creative ways.”

Sam stared him down. “Maybe,” was all he said, before striding forward and planting a syringe deeply in Dean's neck. Dean's eyes went wide with rage, and then rolled back in his head. Crowley easily caught him as he fell back, and Sam said heavily, “Get him in the rental car. We need to get him back to the bunker's dungeon as soon as possible, before this wears off.”

“This will work, Moose.” Crowley's voice was soft. Sam looked at him. “I pray it does, Crowley. If it doesn't, we have no options left.”

*

In a male rest room at a truck stop near Casper, Wyoming, Aira suddenly gripped the sink with both hands, feeling cold and empty. Invisible to the mortal eye, his wings drooped, heavy and thick, and a band tightened around his ribcage, making it difficult to breathe. There was only one thing that would cause such a grievous response—death.

Specifically, the death of another angel.

After a few moments, the consciousness receded, but Aira was no fool. He knew that Amox had to be told of the new developments, and preferably as soon as possible. Heading back out into the diner, he found the man where he had left him at their booth, browsing over the morning's newspaper and savoring a cup of fresh black coffee. He gave Aira a small nod.

“I took the liberty of ordering you sausage and eggs as well as myself,” he said softly. “We must retain our strength for the road ahead.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If the portents you spoke of were indeed true, then we must not waste any chance we have to eat.”

“We would be better suited to having the waitress box the food for us.”

Something in the angel's tone made Amox pause with the cup halfway to his mouth. When his eyes met Aira's, he put it down immediately.

“What has happened?” he asked quietly. Aira's expression was grave.

“I fear one of our brothers has died.”

Amox looked stunned. “But how is this possible? Every member lost their Grace but for you. There are no true angels left save yourself.”

Aira shook his head. “I do not understand it myself.” His eyes grew troubled. “But I felt it, Amox. My soul...it grew fractured. As though a part of me had become extinct.”

Amox's gaze fell to his coffee, and he swirled the remaining liquid around in the cup. His question was hesitant, almost as though he was either afraid to ask, feared the answer—or both. “What we spoke of traveling here, brother—the damned one and his angel—could that perhaps have any effect on what you experienced?”

"It is highly possible.”

Amox bowed his head. “This situation appears more complicated than I originally thought,” he mumbled, and Aira said simply, “All the more reason to move on.”

As they stepped outside, Aira instantly noticed six burly men standing near the diesel pumps, crowding near their tankers, fueling up many feet from the diner. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and although he knew at once they were upper-level demons, he resisted the urge to draw his angel blade. Now was not the time for such confrontations, not when mortal lives hung in the balance. Amox, however, was apparently of no such mind. He glared at the demons openly as they passed, and Aira gripped his arm. “Not here,” he said firmly. “There are innocents.”

“Speaking of innocents,” a demon who was inhabiting a blond Texan in jeans and a blue long-sleeved shirt drawled casually, “how's that girl of yours, angel face? Bet she'd look real pretty kneeling between my legs.” There were snickers from the others, and Amox froze where he stood, his back rigid. Aira tightened his grip to the point of pain.

“Brother...” he warned.

“Come to think of it,” it continued, strolling up into Amox's space until the two were nose to nose, its eyes flicking to coal as it smiled viciously, “maybe I'll go find her and teach her the finer points of obedience. Word is that all my gals like my lessons.”

Wolf whistles and cat calls abounded, and laughter soon followed. Aira was just about to drag Amox from the scene when a scream filled the air. The diesel pump next to Amox had suddenly, inexplicably caught fire, and unfortunately for the demon, its human host had been leaning against it when it did so, which meant that both mortal and demon were now suffering terribly. Stunned, Aira looked over to see two more demons in the same predicament. The wails and screeching had sent customers and wait staff running from the diner, who were now fleeing for their lives as the next gas pump down the line suddenly careened sky-high in a massive ball of black smoke and flame.

Aira was about to ask Amox what in the name of all that was good was going on when his gaze was drawn to the pendant at Amox's neck. He could feel the raw power surging through it even from where he stood, and suddenly, he realized exactly what was happening.

“Amox,” he said quietly. “Enough, my brother.” Amox met his gaze, a challenge in his furious eyes, and Aira let his wings spread to their full length, not even trying to suppress his own power. “Enough,” he repeated, voice deep and low, and Amox did not miss the look in his eyes.

Trembling with barely-suppressed rage, he ran with Aira to their rental car, the sounds of the inferno in his ears, and wordlessly slipped into the passenger seat. Only when they were back on the highway did he suddenly slam his fist atop the dashboard, making Aira jump slightly and the car swerve gently to the left.

“Why did you not allow me to finish the fight?” he hollered, and Aira said softly, “It was not the time nor the place.”

Amox let out a hiss, turning his head to stare out of the window at the gray, overcast day, rain droplets just beginning to spatter upon the windshield. “They were demons. It was nothing less than they deserved.”

Aira glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as they took an exit, his gaze hard. “And the human forms housing them? What of their fates?”

Amox let out a snort. “It was by their own choice they became as they were. I hold no sympathy in my heart for them.”

There was silence in the car for a few moments as Aira continued to drive, and then he spoke quietly. “Then I fear you stand no chance of surviving this fight against the Winchester himself.”

Amox spun in his seat. “What do you mean?” he demanded harshly. “I am of a perfectly clear mind.”

“Are you?” Aira said calmly. “When have I known you to be so callous about the fate of a mortal, brother?” Aira turned the wipers on high as the steady rain became a downpour, slowing down to a lower rate of speed. “If Camael could have witnessed your actions today, I doubt she would have been pleased.”

For an instant, Amox forgot how to breathe as his mind was filled with visions of deep red hair, laughing dark brown eyes, and wings the color of a falcon's. A lump filled his throat as he snarled, “Do not speak her name to me. You do not have the right.”

“Indeed?” Amox said, and his tone held a cold edge. “I did not leave her for the seductive pull of the power you carry. Nor did I refuse to search for her after the Fall.”

“STOP!”

Aira did exactly that, pulling the car over onto the shoulder of the road and turning it off. For long moments there was only the drumming of the rain on the roof, and then Amox whispered brokenly, “I did not wish this. Any of it. I wanted only to protect her, Aira. You must understand.” He buried his face in a sleeve, his words filled with sorrow. “It was never my intention to harm her, and I wish only to change everything.”

Aira kept his gaze on the road. His voice was hard. “I know. Yet there is no other choice now but to face the consequences.”

When they eventually reached Cheyenne, the rain was coming down so quickly and hard that Aira could barely see except for the beam of the headlights on the road before them. The streets were practically empty, and Amox didn't blame the residents for staying inside. Who in their right mind would be out in weather like this?

He suddenly remembered how differently it would rain in the heavens he and Camael would visit, and instead of honoring their duties, they would retreat to a private area, build a nest, and spend the day quietly there, wrapped in each others' wings. But that had been a very, very long time ago.

“Do you have any idea where we are going?” Amox murmured, and if his voice was a bit listless, Aira chose not to heed it.

“An idea, yes. A clear direction, no.”

“How helpful,” Amox grumbled, and turned away to examine the pouring rain once more. It was coming down harder, if that was even possible, when a figure suddenly stepped in the middle of the road.

“Stop!” Amox roared. Aira jammed on the brakes hard enough that the car went into a three hundred sixty degree tailspin on the waterlogged pavement. Amox knew they would not be able to keep from hitting the victim, and asked for forgiveness.

Miraculously, the vehicle came to rest a scant few feet from what Amox realized was a woman. Heedless of whatever Aira was saying to warn him, he leapt from the car into the rain, the force of it feeling like needles hitting his skin, and cautiously approached her.

“Are you all right?” he said gently. She stared at him fearlessly, and it was then he noticed her red hair and dark eyes.

He cursed silently. _Must you mock me_? he asked whoever was listening.

“Your driving is terrible,” she said flatly, and despite himself, Amox hid a grin.

“I was not driving, and it is raining. You are lucky you were not hit,” he pointed out.

She threw him a look. “I love how men deceive themselves.”

She turned away and began walking north, and Amox called after her, startled at her frankness, “I beg your pardon?”

She turned back and raised a slim brow. “I'm sorry; I don't believe I stuttered.”

Anger welled in Amox's chest. “You stepped into the road without so much as a cursory glance! If anyone is at fault, it is you!”

“I am fine,” she said tersely. “Unless you count the cost that I am currently cold from arguing with a senseless man in the middle of a downpour.”

Amox hesitated for only an instant. “Get in the car.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

He raised his hands in a placating manner. “I won't hurt you. My friend and I seek a motel for the night. When dawn comes you are free to leave. I am only disturbed for your welfare.”

Something shifted in her entire demeanor at his words, and she peered at him. “I have a motel. I am headed there now.”

Taken aback, Amox stared at her closely. “May I offer to drop you there, at least?”

She seemed wary, but followed him back to the car, where she slid into the backseat, taking the emergency blanket Amox gave her and wrapping herself tightly in it. She stared at the back of the driver's seat pointedly, but when Aira made no comment, she settled back and closed her eyes.

As they began the drive once more, Aira glanced at Amox. The look in his eyes was heavy, and he switched to their mother tongue, speaking quietly. “ _A vrbs qurlst aspt monons_.” Amox stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Aira said quietly, “Do you truly not know?”

“Know what?” Amox was staring at him oddly. “We nearly ran over a young woman in the rain and are bringing her back to her motel. An act of Fate that we did not hit her, to be sure, but I do not understand what you are-”

“It is her, my brother,” Aira said quietly.

Amox did not answer for a long time, and when Aira chanced to look at him again, his chest was rising and falling sharply.

“Camael.”

The word was barely audible; nevertheless, Aira looked in the rear-view mirror quickly to make certain she had not heard. “Yes,” he murmured. “But you must not tell her.”

Amox was understandably bitter. “How can you say this?”

“Amox.” Aira's voice was sharp. “She does not know you. I m not even certain she is aware she has Fallen. If you were to suddenly spring the news on her, there is a high chance she would break mentally. Is that what you want?”

Amox looked away. “No,” he admitted, just as quietly.

“Then let it be for now,” Aira counseled softly. “When the time is right, you will know.”

Amox's reply sent unexplained chills down Aira's spine. “I pray by then it is not too late.”

It was not too long after that Amox felt the car pull into a long drive, and from the look on Aira's face, he guessed they had arrived at the woman's motel. She stirred in the back and stretched, and the visual memory of Camael winding her long limbs around his made Amox ache, so much that it hurt to draw breath. He turned away as she opened the door and flipped the emergency blanket up over her head to shield herself from the rain, no longer a downpour but steady, and unlocked the door with trembling hands. Against his better judgment, Amox reached out to gently touch her, and she stilled.

The air was silent for many moments, and then she spoke in a whisper that shattered everything Amox thought he had been.

_“Drilpa geh ils pambt.”_

She turned to meet his gaze, and tears she could not contain stood in her eyes. He reeled.

“You knew,” he said, and caught hold of her shoulders, giving them a firm shake. “ _You knew_.”

“I did,” she said, closing her eyes as the tears overflowed, bowing her head. “I have known since the Fall.”

Amox stumbled away, his expression wild. “All this time,” he said bitterly, “I thought you lost to me, and you have chosen to let me suffer.” “I did what I thought was best,” she begged, and he spun on his heel, betrayal in his gaze. “Best?” he spat. “For a year I have been tortured because I believed you dead. I wished to join you and fought many nights against the idea of running myself through with my own blade. And now you say you hid from me for my good?”

“You did not seek me out, either,” she said, a sudden hint of bitterness in her tone, and Amox stiffened as she went on. “What was I to think of the promises you made me? I waited for you!” Her voice was a sudden shriek, her eyes wild with fury. “I loved you as no other has ever done! How could you betray me by falling for the promises of Lucifer? You slaughtered your own kind in cold blood for him, Amox, and now you are no better than the demons he pulled with him into the Abyss!”

Without warning, his hand came across and landed with a fierce crack on her cheek. An instant after, his face went white.

For a long moment, Camael stared at him, and the anger faded from her eyes, replaced by a longing and sadness so deep it made Amox's breath catch. She gathered that hand to her lips, warmth sliding across his fingers, and then there was only empty space where she had stood.

Amox felt eyes watching him from the porch, and when he lifted his gaze, Magdalena was gazing at him silently. Betrayed, ashamed, and feeling raw beyond words, Amox lifted his head and screamed his pain to the weeping skies.

*

Dean opened his eyes slowly, his limbs on fire and his wrists feeling raw and chafed. Upon casting a cursory glance at the ceiling, he immediately saw why.

“Well, aren't you two a pair of smart little foxes,” he called out through the door. “What cocktail did you use, Crowley? Same one we fed to you? Let me tell you, it's pretty damn effective. Must have felt great.” Dean twisted his head this way and that, hearing a satisfying pop. “Of course, you can't keep me in here until I rot. I've got some friends that know I'm here, and they're very interested to meet you.” His eyes flicked to coal. “So tell me, Sam,” Dean said, voice gone deathly low, “how much longer are we going to play brother against brother?”

There was no response, and Dean chuckled. “You always were a stubborn son of a bitch. It's a shame that Castiel died for nothing.”

At that, the door slammed open on its hinges, and Sam strode across the dungeon floor, his expression filled with seething fury.

“Moose,” Crowley warned from the doorway. “Moose, don't--”

But Sam was already there, hauling Dean up in his chains. “What do you mean, he died for nothing?” he spat. “Tell me!” he shouted. “Is Castiel dead?”

Dean's eyes were as dark as sin, and he leaned into Sam's personal space. “Give the devil his due,” he said with a slow smile.

Crowley was suddenly there, and he said quietly, “Wait outside, Moose.”

“What? Crowley, I--”

Crowley looked at him, a deep, penetrating gaze. “Who better to play poker with the devil than his associate?” he said. “Now go, Sam.”

His tone left no room for argument, and it was then Sam realized Crowley had no intention of leaving the dungeon alive. He paused, indecisive.

“Sam.” Crowley's voice was final. “I said go.”

Sam turned away, but not before he watched Crowley take a seat at the table in front of Dean, who smiled again. “Welcome home,” his brother said to the demon, before the door closed in the younger Winchester's face.

*

Crowley simply stared at Dean for a few moments, and then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the other creature's chains. Dean watched him with calculating eyes as he stood to full height, stretching cramped muscles. “You're full of surprises, demon.”

“So are you,” Crowley said evenly. “What happened to the man I knew?”

Dean smiled again, the careless, chilling one that Crowley was beginning to loathe. “Which man? Are you talking about the one whose soul I ate?”

The reply was so unexpected it sent Crowley into a tailspin. Dean knew it, and he laughed wickedly. “For a demon that was the King of Hell, you know nothing. There are things greater than your kind, Crowley. Greater than angels, greater even than Lucifer and God. Do you think Cain took the Mark simply because he made a deal with Lucifer? No.” Dean's eyes grew colder. “Lucifer feared for his life, and thus he passed on the brand of the First Slaughterer.”

Crowley met Dean's gaze, spine prickling. “What are you, then, chap?” he asked quietly.

Dean's lips curved upward in a sinister smile. “ _Vināśā.”_

*

Sam heard the chaos in the dungeon an instant before the bunker's lights went out, and he grabbed the weapon nearest him—Castiel's angel blade, he noticed quickly—and thundered through the darkened halls, the building quaking around him with every mile he ran. When he reached the dungeons, all was quiet, but Sam wasn't stupid enough to think that everything was over. He gripped the blade tighter, and approached the dungeon door.

It was hanging off its hinges, the wood splintered and cracked as though a giant had kicked it. The stones inside holding up the walls and ceiling had fallen, and littered the floor—or what remained of it, Sam noticed with horror, as he saw the deep craters in the cement.

 _What the hell?_ he thought frantically, searching as best he could for Crowley without sending himself straight down a hole nearly ten times his size. But there was no sign of the half-demon, and Sam regrettably resigned himself to the fact that Crowley had been killed.

“Not yet, Moose.” The choked-off murmur came from his left, and Sam spun to find Crowley curled up in a corner, blood covering the side of his head and streaming from the corner of his mouth. Sam knelt beside him. “Where's Dean, Crowley?” he asked, though he wasn't keen on knowing the answer.

Crowley gazed at him, his eyes filled with regret. “I'm truly sorry, Moose. There is no Dean anymore.”

Sam's stomach dropped somewhere below the ruined floor. “What do you mean?” he demanded shakily. Crowley struggled to sit up, but didn't make it more than a few feet before he was forced to lean back against the wall as the room spun around him. Raggedly, he spoke. “Your brother is gone. The Mark of Cain is not what it appears.”

“What do you mean? Cain passed the Mark onto Dean when they met. It was Cain's destiny-”

“No, no, Moose, it's so much bigger than that, don't you see?” Crowley said agitatedly, as the building trembled under them once again. Sam cast an anxious glance around as dust fell from the ceiling. “Lucifer didn't pass on the Mark because of a deal made with Cain, he passed it on out of fear. He was afraid for his life.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about, Crowley?!?” Sam snapped, losing patience and trying to comprehend what this all meant.

“Dean was lost the moment he chose to take the Mark, Moose. We're now dealing with Mahākāla.”

“Well done,” a voice said, and Sam rose immediately to face his brother—or what had been his brother. In his place was a creature that Sam did not recognize; one that carried himself with a strange air of authority and power. He was robed in black, the First Blade tucked at his belt. His eyes were black again—what Sam guessed was a permanent change. At first Sam was left floundering, until what he'd researched about Hindu gods came flooding back. _Mahākāla. Oh my god,_ Sam thought, feeling nauseated. _My brother is housing the Destroyer of the World._

As though reading his mind—and Sam really didn't want to think about what that meant if he was—Mahākāla stared at him, his eyes betraying nothing. Sam suspected they never would from this point onward. He clenched his teeth and rose, reigning in his temper. “We aren't done here,” he said softly; clearly. “You _will_ see me again.”

“I expect it,” was the reply, and Sam watched as the god elegantly made his way down the ruined hall and up the stairs, leaving the man no choice but to let him go.

*

Asmodeus couldn't help but be secretly pleased with the way things had turned out—even if it meant that his own being could very well be in danger of extinction now that Mahākāla was running the show—yet he harbored an idea that if he could manage to get into the god's good graces, things would be very different for everyone involved. And of course, it would be a wonderful way to return fire at the treasonous adder Crowley, he thought with a snarl. He knew quite well that the demon had joined forces with Sam Winchester and Castiel, whom Asmodeus was well aware happened to be very _not_ dead. There was also the not-so-small matter of the fallen angel Amox and his quite beautiful, also fallen lover. Throw in the problem of Lucifer's pendant and the Prophetess, and one had a delicious mix of potential disaster. Yes, he had quite a few plans to make.

*

Aira crossed to the window silently in the darkness, the rain from the afternoon having continued despite the fact that it was now the wee hours of the morning. Magdalena lay sleeping soundly in the other bed, but Amox remained in the empty lot, face upturned to the sky, and even from where he stood Aira could hear the lonely cry of the fallen angel's soul—a soft, desperate keen that would have moved any mortal to tears.

Amox did not move when Aira left the motel room and approached him, and the latter was no fool to think that all of the water on his brother's face was rain. Still, he chose not to speak, offering nothing but his presence.

“I have lost everything.”

Amox's voice was a whisper, and the eyes he turned on Aira were a startlingly beautiful silver, filled with unspeakable grief. “What have I done?” he begged. Aira knew the question did not pertain simply to his encounter that afternoon with Camael, but to everything that had happened before the Fall and since. He sighed softly.

“You have become a mortal, brother. And mortality is a difficult road.”

“I will never see her again, Aira.” Amox sounded tortured. “I was given my chance to make things right, and I destroyed it.”

“She is not lost to you,” Aira said, but Amox shook his head.

“I struck her,” he said desperately. “I have loved her since before time began, and I struck her. All that she did was to keep me from harm. I see that now, but it is too late.”

“Amox.” Aira forcibly turned the other man to face him. “Love is a strong binding tie. It has been said often that it is a link that cannot be severed. If you were to call for her, she would come. I am certain of it.”

“And if she does not?”

“Do not think so negatively,” Aira admonished. “I know whom I stood with in Heaven.”

Amox's jaw trembled, and he visibly curled into himself. “He is lost. The one you see before you now is worth nothing.”

“He is still here,” Aira said quietly, and spread his wings, willing them to become visible as he gently took the man's face in his hands. “You are not broken, my brother.”

“I am useless,” Amox wept uncontrollably. “Everything I have been is destroyed.”

“You are still here,” Aira affirmed softly, and drew the former angel into an embrace, tucking him close against his body as his feathers caressed him, their warmth soaking into his skin. “That is a victory in itself.”

For a long while afterward Aira stood in the rain, sheltering the man as he wrestled with his grief. At last, Amox lifted his head, and the two simply stared at each other. No words were needed, and Aira turned away.

Left alone in the mist, Amox kept his gaze on the ground, hoping against all reason that Aira had been right. Another presence was suddenly near him, and following the voice in his heart, Amox looked up. He was rendered immobile as a cascade of red hair and a pair of dark brown eyes stood before him, his breath stolen from his lungs. He dared not move, afraid a single one would shatter the moment and wake him from what he feared was a dream. Camael silently stepped forward and nestled herself against his chest, and the feel of her body against his own after so long broke Amox's vow not to touch her. Nearly wildly, he crushed her form to him, breathing in the scent of wild cherries and sweet honeysuckle that had always accompanied her.

“My love,” he whispered. “Oh, my love. Forgive me of my sins. I was so very wrong. The price I have paid is not worth losing you.” Tears poured from his eyes as he bent his head and kissed her, letting all the emotion he had stored for the past year over her disappearance and loss pour from his lips to hers. When he could gather the strength to pull back, Camael's eyes shone with her own tears. The touch of her hand upon his face nearly brought him to his knees, and he leaned into her palm, allowing her warmth to soak into his skin. Amox had thought he would never feel her hands upon him again, and he drew her tighter against his body, brushing his lips tenderly across her ear.

 _“Ol ip uran page zacam volci quasahi zomd virq. Nonci chis zirdo.”_ She met his gaze, gentle heat in her eyes, and without a word pulled him toward the rental car.

*

Castiel's eyes fluttered open in the darkened room, his senses feeling deprived. There was nothing to explain the abject feeling of loss surrounding him like a thick cloud—at least not physically—and he forced himself to rise to his feet, ignoring the way his body fought him.

At once, his eyes fell upon the fine black dust resting in a small dish on the night table, beside which was a note scrawled in fluid handwriting.

_I'm truly sorry, Castiel. I'm well aware I've toyed with your life, but I've never wished this type of grief on you. --Crowley_

Castiel touched the paper, well aware of what the ash was. There was no doubt in his mind why he had survived. An angel did not live through such torment as he had experienced unless there was a greater purpose behind it, and he now knew his explicitly.

“Castiel?” The voice emanating from the doorway was Sam's, and the other man met his gaze. Sam caught his breath at the absolute calm he saw there, taking a small step back. “I, uh...” He floundered for a moment. _Focus, man. We've got serious shit to deal with._ “You probably have no idea what's happened since you've been out, but Dean..he's gone, Cas,” Sam said hauntingly. “The Mark took him over, and anything that remained of him has just...” Sam swallowed bitterly at the memory of the Hindu god leaving the bunker. “Mahākāla owns him completely now. My brother's soul is dead.”

Sam watched as Castiel carefully and deliberately shed his ruined trench coat, dress shirt, and tie, leaving him bare-chested. Confused, he said, “What are you doing?”

Castiel's reply was cool and unexpected, and it sent chills down Sam's spine with the certainty of it. “The prophecy you read was never meant for the demon Crowley.”

The Winchester stared at Castiel in horror as the words began to sink in, and he shook his head slowly. “No. You can't do this.”

There was no malice in Castiel's words, but they made Sam feel about ten inches tall.

“Your brother left his imprint on my soul as much, if not more than, I left mine on his own. Do you think I will leave him to be destroyed by the very forces I fought to bring him back from? Don't presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, child.”

“Mahākāla won't just kill you, Castiel.” Sam's voice was very quiet. “He'll destroy your flesh, but then he'll take his time eating your soul in the afterlife. I don't know much about him, but I do know that most of the Hindu gods don't play nice. Knowing you were once an angel is probably going to make you his prime appetizer for eternity. Please, _please_ don't do this. I already lost Dean. I don't want to lose you, too.”

Castiel paused at the words, and then lifted his head once more. This time, his gaze was heavy with the weight of purpose. “All of my existence, I have been straining against the tides of Fate. I have done everything in my power to ensure that I controlled what I thought was mine, and now I am left with ashes.” Sam didn't miss the subtle way his body was angled toward the remains of his wings, and knew the phraseology had been very much intentional. He continued. “I will no longer allow my mistakes to cost others their all.”

For a moment, Castiel's gaze dropped, but when it met Sam's for the final time, there was nothing but cool steel there. “Show me where the weapons are kept.”

Sam blinked. “What? Castiel, the Men of Letters were skilled, and they knew how to defeat a lot of things, but I really don't think that the Hindu destroyer-god was on that list.”

“Sam.” Castiel's voice had taken on a sharp edge. “I am not asking.”

Sam opened his mouth to refuse again, but stopped as he looked into the former angel's eyes—really looked. There was an unmistakable depth of stubbornness there that he knew he would never be able to get past, but more than that, he saw for the first time the bitter desperation of someone who had been forced to watch the person they loved fall into darkness—because, Sam realized, with a sudden startling clarity he wondered how he could have ever missed, Castiel did not simply love his brother, but was _in love_ with him, and had more than likely been for years. It was no small wonder he was so adamant about drawing Mahākāla from his body and consequently, his soul.

“Okay, Cas,” Sam said softly. “Do what you have to do.”

*

Castiel had never been privileged enough to see this part of the bunker before, and he had to admit that it was quite impressive. He examined the walls upon which the weaponry lay, recognizing samurais from China's sixth dynasty, bayonets from the French Revolution, scimitars from Saudi Arabia's many sultans, and many more articles of protection. All were proudly displayed where they could clearly be seen...but Castiel knew what he sought would not be so easily found.

He carefully made his way past many more defensive pieces, and then his eyes lit upon it. It was at the far end of the room, away from light and prying eyes, that he saw what he had come for. Even though it had remained untouched for many centuries, the blade still gleamed as if it had been forged only yesterday. It appeared as nothing more than a simple sword, left forgotten in an uncategorized pile of weapons that the original Men of Letters had never finished sorting, and Castiel remained grateful for that. He was certain Sam had never known the weapon existed; if he had, the man would have gone after the god long before now. As it stood, there was no time to dwell on any of that now. Time was slipping through their fingers. The longer Mahākāla remained in Dean's body, the less chance the hunter had for survival.

Castiel closed his fingers around the hilt of the sword and tested its durability. It was weighty, but given that it had been forged by the gods themselves, he had been expecting it. He was now also a mortal man, and did not possess the strength he once owned. Thankfully, his body had chosen to retain its knowledge of swordsmanship, and he harbored no doubts that he would be able to wield the weapon in battle. The coup d'etat would be to draw Mahākāla out.

*

Amox quietly led Camael back into the motel room at dawn, shutting the door silently. Magdalena had turned over during the night, but had never woken. Aira was stretched out in the lone chair, his posture relaxed. Amox wasn't sure if he was truly asleep, but he did know that his brother would not make a move or speak unless Amox indicated that he wanted it so. Camael nuzzled his neck softly, murmuring, “The child has a hard road ahead.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, his heart swelling with both love and fear. At last he said, “She is stronger than many. I have known this from the moment she discovered me in the woods after my Fall and slowly began to heal me, physically as well as emotionally.” Amox sighed. “I had hoped to spare her this, Camael. It was not my wish that she should be involved in any part of my war.”

Camael looked up at him, her eyes gentle. “You can't shelter her forever, beloved. She must face what is to come.”

“I know it.” Amox's throat tightened on the words. “Yet I fear losing her, Camael. I have had too much taken from me to watch her die in my arms.”

She gently turned his face so that his gaze met hers. “What is to say that she will perish? Perhaps she can save us all.”

He held her eyes. “Do you truly believe that?”

“I believe that she trusts you and has faith in herself,” Camael replied quietly. “I see no reason why that should not be enough to take a stand.”

Aira opened his eyes as the first rays of sunlight played across his face, choosing to remain silent. He knew Camael and Amox had not returned to the motel room last night, but he would remain discreet. As he had explained to his fallen brother, not all things that occurred were for evil. She had returned to him, and now their band was one stronger to face the menace that was soon to come. They did not yet know the true extent of it, and Aira was loathe to be the harbinger of ill news. Still, he was well aware that there was nothing to be done for it. If they did not know what they were up against, they could not truly fight it.

The rustling of sheets behind him was an indication that Magdalena was awake, and soon her tired, anxious voice broke the peaceful stillness. “He is coming.”

Amox lifted his head from where he had been in conversation with Camael, his eyes guarded and wary. “Who comes?” he asked, and her voice was hollow as she answered, her gaze unfocused.

“The Destroyer. He will swing his scythe and reap those whom he has chosen. There is no mercy in him. He will make you beg for death, and when he delivers it to you at last, your eternity will be spent being devoured time and time again with no reprieve.”

The air had suddenly become cold, and gooseflesh rose on Amox's arms. “Who do you speak of, Magdalena?” he pressed. “What is the name of this creature?”

She met his gaze, her eyes still haunted and empty. “You know him well. He was once upon your doorstep, and shared your bread before choosing another path.”

At the words, Amox's world came to a grinding halt. A guttural snarl rose from deep within his chest, surprising even himself. “Dean Winchester?” he ground out. “The hunter?”

“He no longer exists,” Aira said softly, and all eyes locked onto him. “The Mark has run its full course.”

“Which means?” Camael asked, her grip on Amox tightening slightly, and Aira replied gravely, “His soul has become bound to Mahākāla. What humanity he owned, the god claimed as its own.”

Amox clenched his jaw. “How do we kill him?”

Magdalena looked at him in surprise. “You wish the man dead?”

“He is no longer a man.” Amox's reply was fierce. “He is a god whose only intent is murder and chaos, and I do not plan on allowing him to live.”

Camael's expression was filled with concern. “How do we slay a god when we don't know his weakness?”

“Castiel may be the key.” Amox turned to stare at Aira, his eyes shrewd.

“You mean to use Dean's relationship with my fallen brother to draw the god out?”

“If you have a more viable idea, I would suggest voicing it,” Aira said evenly, and while Amox's eyes narrowed, he did not object.

Camael had ventured over to sit next to Magdalena, and had begun to brush the girl's long hair away from her face. “How are we meant to lure them both here?” she asked.

Aira's look was grim. “If my instincts are correct, we will not have to do anything.”

*

Asmodeus completed the ancient, complicated ritual and set the incense aside, waiting patiently. If all went according to plan, the Hindu deity should appear at any moment.

“You seek me to do your bidding as a dog would obey its master? My knowledge of your kind is slim, but it would seem the rumors of your foolishness hold true.”

The chilling voice made the hairs on the back of the demon's neck rise, but he said calmly, “I have far more respect for you than to simply treat you as an errand boy. It was my wish we might come to an agreement.”

For some moments, there was utter silence, and then, between one blink and the next, the god was standing before him. Asmodeus caught his breath. To see the dangerous eyes of Mahākāla looking out of Dean Winchester's face was a shock, to say the least.

“And why, pray tell, should I not grind you into dust instead?”

The god's voice was deathly quiet. Steadying himself, Asmodeus replied, “It's my understanding that you've been incarcerated for quite some time. I'm certain you'd enjoy nothing more than to wreak complete havoc and destruction, and what better way to begin doing so than to have a little tussle with Castiel?”

Mahākāla gazed at him for so long that Asmodeus was beginning to wonder if perhaps the god had changed his mind about ending his life after all, and the demon had to force himself not to squirm.

“One fallen angel is your price?”

Asmodeus smiled slowly. “Oh, certainly not. I have a far greater price in mind.”

Casually, Mahākāla flicked his fingertips in an upward motion, and Asmodeus was suddenly dangling a few feet off the ground, his windpipe precariously close to shattering. The god glided closer, his words soft yet unmistakably deadly.

“Name this price, child of the Underworld. I am not a patient deity, and I do not enjoy games.”

“A necklace,” Asmodeus choked out. “It was created by Lucifer, and holds more power than one can possibly imagine—when it's utilized in the right way.”

Mahākāla tilted his head in apparent interest. “Who holds this necklace?”

Asmodeus kicked out in consternation, and Mahākāla gazed at him in what the demon would have almost thought was amusement before he let him tumble gracelessly to his thick Persian rug.

“His name is Amox,” Asmodeus grunted, massaging his throat. “He stole the pendant and now carries guilt over his past mistakes—which include murder of his own kind in the name of the Christian devil.”

Mahākāla's eyes gleamed with hunger—a hunger far deeper than that of the Mark of Cain, Asmodeus noted with satisfaction.

“So you will aid me, then?” he asked, and the god stared at him without blinking.

“Aid you?” he said calmly. “Your mind is truly small, demon. This meeting was never centered around you, as much as you would like to believe it was so.”

Asmodeus rose, choosing his words with much thought. It wouldn't do to irritate a mighty Hindu god. “I summoned you,” he argued carefully. “Does that not place you under my thrall?”

The demon felt the temperature in the room change at once, from ambient to bitterly cold to stifling, where it remained. Mahākāla's eyes were now black pools of controlled fury.

“I thank you for your valuable information,” he said coolly. “I require your assistance no longer.”

Asmodeus loosened the collar of his shirt slightly, uncomfortable in the heat—even he, who had spent centuries in Hell. “This meeting is concluded, then,” he said brusquely, and turned. “I'm sure you will enjoy the fallen one's intestines.”

He had been hauled the seven feet above the floor to the ceiling of his living room before he could process how fast Mahākāla had moved, and the god peered at him with calculating, starved eyes that were now gleaming a fiery red. His voice was a sibilant hiss. “I am sure your organs will do quite well.”

*

Sam heard Castiel enter the library, but didn't look up from where he was cleaning the table, replacing the files in their proper drawers and sliding the books back into their sections on the shelves. He wanted to know what Castiel had gone into the sub-basement searching for, but another part of him was terrified to ask. That part knew whatever the other man had returned with would be used to kill Mahākāla, and consequently, his brother, if anything remained of him.

Sam couldn't bear to know what weapon would be employed to murder his brother.

“Sam. We need to talk.”

Castiel's voice cut through his thoughts, and reluctantly, Sam slid the last tome into place and turned to face the fallen angel, his gaze heavy with sorrow and regret. When he saw what Castiel held, however, his expression became one of incredulity.

“A sword?” he said, trying to contain the near-hysterical laugh that was welling up inside of him, threatening to spill over his lips. “You go down into the Men of Letters' secret weapons lair to find something useful to destroy Mahākāla with, and you come back with a damn _sword_? What the hell difference is that going to make against a millennia-old Hindu god bent on destroying the world, Castiel?”

“It is not a sword forged by man,” Castiel said simply, and Sam did laugh this time, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, well, that's great,” he said with a snort. “Just fucking great. A sword we can't use, but it wasn't forged by man. Now we have a mystery. How much worse can this get?”

“The sword is not, so to speak, a sword.”

Sam stared at Castiel, half in consternation and half in confusion. “What are you talking about? How is a sword not a sword?”

“Do you know of the legend of the Mahabharata?”

Slowly, Sam shook his head. “Vaguely, but what does it have to do with Dean and Mahākāla?”

“Long ago,” Castiel began, “the Hindu gods came to Brahma and voiced their dislike over the evil deeds and rulings of the Devas, their demons. Brahma gathered together different sacrificial objects and began to perform one, with his sages and Devas, on the side of the Himalayan mountains. In the midst of this sacrifice, a creature was born, one dreadful to describe—one that caused many natural disasters. Brahma called it Asi.”

“So what was its purpose? And I still don't see what this has to do with the god we're trying to bring down,” Sam argued.

Castiel leveled him with a heavy stare.

“Brahma demanded that Asi destroy the enemies of the gods and restore righteousness. Asi immediately took the blazing, two-edged form of another object.”

Sam suddenly felt as though he'd been punched squarely in the gut, and he caught the edge of the chair nearest him in a white-knuckled grip. “A sword,” he whispered, his eyes drifting down to the weapon in Castiel's hand.

“Yes,” Castiel said, very quietly. “Now do you understand?”

Sam swallowed hard. He did understand; oh, how he understood, and how his heart broke for it, but there was no other choice. If there was any hope of sparing the world Mahākāla's wrath, they had to take this opportunity while they could.

“You're not going alone, Cas,” Sam said hoarsely. “Wherever he is, wherever you have to go to find him, I'm coming.”

“Sam--”

“He was my brother once, Castiel.” Sam's voice cracked. “I know he's gone, but even if I can hold him for those last few seconds before he dies and tell him it's going to be okay...please, just let me do this. Please.”

Castiel watched as the tears that the man had been trying so hard to stem spilled, and in that moment he knew what he had to do. There had never been any other choice, and there never would be—not for him, not in this lifetime. Sam might not forgive him, but that was all right. He had his whole lifetime to try. But all the former angel said was, “Even now I have a connection with him, despite what he has become. I know where he is.”

“Can we get to him in time? Before he causes a worldwide disaster?” Sam asked, already reaching for the keys to the car he'd managed to procure for himself. Castiel's eyes were grave, his words sending a chill of fear and foreboding through Sam's heart.

"The god is only here for one living creature.”

*

“We are not safe here.” Magdalena's words were soft, and Amox looked back at the motel room, knowing that Camael was inside with Aira, as he had asked. He trusted no one more than his brother to watch over her and keep her from harm.

“He is close.” It wasn't a question, and the girl's eyes rose to gaze at the moon, highlighted oddly against the bright orange glow of the motel parking lot's streetlamps. “Yes,” she admitted at last, quietly. “He knows our actions, and even our thoughts are not hidden from him. There is nowhere we can go where he will not find us.”

For a moment, the two remained silent, and then Amox spoke gently. “If it were not for you, Magdalena, I would have perished that day amidst the loam and twigs of the earth. You were led to find me; of that I have no doubt. Since that time I have provided for you, sheltered you, and kept you safe as though you were my earthly child.” He paused, throat slightly tight. “I did not expect to begin to love you as my own, but I suppose that one can't choose the course of their life.”

Magdalena shifted on the curb to look at him, her brown eyes wide with concern. “Why do you say these things to me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “It is as though you are trying to tell me goodbye.”

He smiled sadly, reaching out to cup her chin, thumb tracing a line along her jaw. “You yourself are a gift, beloved,” he murmured, and then said gently, “Were you ever told you had a guardian angel?” Her lower lip trembled, and she replied, “Yes. My mother reminded me, many times, and I know she is with me even now. I only wish I knew her name. I would thank her, for everything.” Amox chuckled softly at that.

“Oh, she is aware, child. Believe me when I tell you that.”

Magdalena shook her head desperately. “I don't understand. You are not making sense. _Juan_ ,” she pleaded. “Talk to me, I beg you. I am frightened.”

Tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, Amox gently pulled her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead in his own last, private benediction. “ _Crea en mÍ, hermosa_ ,” he whispered, and swiftly rose, walking down the winding drive into the surrounding woods before Magdalena could form a reply.

*

Sam glanced at Castiel out of the corner of his eye as he drove, watching the way the other man's expression remained still and sad. How much of his experiences with Dean was he reliving inside his head, Sam wondered? Did he remember pulling the man from Perdition, and the years of struggle and turmoil afterward before Dean would finally, fully trust him? Was he going through the mistakes he himself had made, and the ensuing pain it had caused his friend? Did he know his choices had wounded Dean deeply, and that the hunter had agonized over what he could have done to fix it for many months? Or, Sam thought, lead settling in his gut, was he trying to steel himself for the moment when he would have to drive home the sword in his Righteous Man's heart?

“Keep your eyes on the road, Sam.” The words were an admonishment, but Castiel's voice was gentle. Quickly, Sam's eyes darted back to the highway, expecting a car to be swerving into their lane, but nothing was coming. All that was there was the same endless stretch of blacktop, and Sam said, “There's nothing coming.”

“Perhaps not yet. But it's best to remain alert, and watch all areas around you.” Sam's eyes stung, and he said thickly, “This isn't an impromptu driving lesson, is it?”

Castiel gazed at him sadly. “You've meant much to me, Sam.”

“Just shut up, okay?” Angrily, Sam swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “You're not going to die, all right? I won't let you.”

Castiel laughed humorlessly. “Do you think you can cheat death?”

Sam's very bones grew chilled at hearing nearly the very same words that Death himself had uttered to Dean in the Chicago pizza parlor so many years ago, and he ground out, “I don't give a rat's ass if he's an ancient Hindu god or not. I don't let my family down.”

“This is not about letting anyone down,”Castiel said softly. “This is about learning to let go, Sam. Mahākāla has taken what is beloved to me. I intend to return it to you. If I perish trying, so be it. You must accept that. Your brother has always come first in your life, and knowing this does not wound me. I will destroy the evil that holds him captive and bring him back whole. I have done it before, and I intend to do so again.”

Sam met his gaze briefly. “And if you can't?”

Castiel held his gaze. “Then we perish together.”

*

Camael came awake with a start when her fingers reached out and touched nothing but cold sheets, and she sat up immediately, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. At once she knew that Amox was not there, and she quietly slipped on her jeans and shirt, intending on heading outside to search for him, when Magdalena's tearful voice was heard at the end of the bed.

“He is gone.”

Camael paused in the act of reaching for her gun, her heart pounding.

“What do you mean, 'gone'?” she replied softly, dreading the answer.

“He left me for the woods,” she whispered, shoulders shaking with sorrow. “I tried to stop him, but he would not listen. He has gone to meet the creature.”

Camael's heart lodged in her throat. “When did he leave you?” she said urgently.

Magdalena shook her head, desperation in her eyes. “It does not matter. Fate has been set in motion, and now must follow its course.”

“Has he gone to die?” Camael asked, needing to know, but dreading the answer.

Magdalena began to sob in earnest. “Yes,” she replied in a whisper.

“Magdalena,” Camael said softly, taking her hands, “I know about your gift. I know that is the reason you came. I think now is the time when it is needed.”

“What can I possibly do against an ancient powerful god?” the girl pleaded. “I only have the gift of prophecy. That will never impact the outcome of this fight.”

Camael smiled sadly. “Oh, I don't believe that. You are stronger than you think, and now is the time for you to rise up. Amox needs you. Go to him, Magdalena. He cannot win this battle alone, and without you, evil will succeed.”

Magdalena drew a breath, and the familiar fire Camael recognized lit in her eyes. She looked at Aira, who had joined them by the bedside, and spoke firmly. “I know where he is headed. Follow me.”

*

“Castiel, are you really ready for this?” Castiel never turned at Sam's hesitant question, focusing on the wooded path they were currently traveling on foot. Mahākāla was very close; he could feel the god's energy and raw power sizzling across his skin, mortal though he was.

“If you are asking me if I am ready to die for Dean's sake, then the answer is yes,” he replied simply. “It has always been yes.”

Castiel stopped as the woods suddenly emerged onto a clearing, the moon streaming down and bathing two figures in an ethereal glow. One appeared to be another man, and the other... Castiel's grip tightened on the sword, his eyes closing for a moment as he fought down a wave of grief. _It is not Dean. Not in this moment._

 _“_ Despite the rash words of the demon, you are not the one I have chosen.”

Castiel's eyes opened at the words, and he peered at the two in the clearing. The man raised his chin. “You will not destroy any more lives. I will not allow it.”

The god seemed to chuckle. “And you believe that you will bring this to pass?” In an instant, his demeanor changed, eyes flicking to red.

“I have yet to feast, mortal.”

Sam grabbed wildly at Castiel's arm, and missed, as the fallen angel stepped into the clearing, sword aloft.

“There will be no feast for you today, Mahākāla,” he said quietly, knowing the god would hear. “Nor ever again.”

The man turned, and when their eyes met, Castiel gave a small nod. Amox shook his head, half in disbelief, half in sorrow. “This is madness, my brother,” he said. “You will perish.”

“I do not fear death,” Castiel replied, and moved closer as the god did the same.

“You would give up your life for this monster?” Amox said agitatedly. “The man inside is long gone, Castiel! He chose his path; leave him to it!” Castiel watched Mahākāla with a soldier's eye as the two advanced on each other, seeking any opening he could use.

“I will not leave the Righteous Man to suffer.”

“Castiel!” Amox shouted. “There is no Righteous Man left!”

Mahākāla's merciless eyes landed on Castiel, fixing him in place. Though they were whispered, his words still reached the ears of everyone present.

“What is righteousness, fallen child of the skies?”

Sam yelled out a warning seconds before Castiel's blood began to boil, the agony driving him to his knees, his grip on the sword forgotten as he clung to the earth. A strangled, animalistic cry was heard, and dimly, it registered that it was his own. Mahākāla watched him clinically, no emotion visible upon his face, and Castiel held his gaze.

“Dean,” he begged. “Listen to my voice. Cast out the beast.” Castiel's back arched as the pain increased tenfold, and he gasped. Still, he did not stop. “I know you,” he gritted. “I know the man I pulled from Perdition. Your soul is pure. Remember who you are. Remember what you stand for. Dean--”

The sudden feeling of being ripped apart internally made him scream, and he fell prostrate at the god's feet.

*

Camael stopped in her tracks as she came upon the sight in the clearing, her heart thundering painfully beneath her ribs. Amox was alive, but Castiel—she could sense his agony even from this distance, and it made her want to retch. Beside her, Magdalena's hand tightened around hers as she watched the scene unfold, her eyes bright with fright and anger. She turned to Aira. “Can we do nothing for him?” she asked, as Castiel's scream echoed through the trees. Aira's jaw was tight.

“This is his war with the god. To intervene now would bring death on us all.” Magdalena's eyes flashed."

“Are you saying we allow him to die? You know as well as I that he will if we stand by and refuse to help him.”

Aira looked at her, his gaze unyielding. “I have never advocated cowardice, and that is not what we are doing.”

“Then what is your plan?” she snapped. “All I see is death.”

His eyes grew stern. “Then perhaps your prophecies have become clouded with misconception and fear.”

If it were possible, her gaze grew angrier. “What do you mean?”

“You were given a gift, child,” Aira spat. “Use it.”

*

Mahākāla hauled Castiel up by his hair, his gaze boring into the dying man's. “You sought to destroy me,” he said quietly. “I admire your persistence, but it was a foolish endeavor. The man you once loved is dead, and now I will take great pleasure in devouring your soul.”

“His soul will remain intact, beast. Yours is the only one that will be devoured.”

Mahākāla's head turned toward the new voice, and a cruel smile twisted his lips as he let Castiel go. The man forced himself to his knees again, his heart telling him to remain alert for this.

“Ah,” the god said quietly. “The Prophetess. At last we meet.”

“Your time is at an end,” she said clearly, and Amox cast terrified eyes in her direction.

“Magdalena,” he hissed. “What are you doing?” She silenced him with an upraised hand. “What I was born to do,” she replied, voice like steel, and faced Mahākāla squarely. “You asked what righteousness was. It is standing before you. Taste it if you don't believe my words.”

“NO!” Amox screamed, in the same instance as the god hissed, “You offer yourself as a sacrifice. I accept,” and reached for her.

Magdalena slipped to the ground as soon as Mahākāla touched her, her body still and pale as the god slowly stole her life. Camael rushed forward, only to be caught around the waist by Aira and pulled back. “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “He's killing her!” “Wait,” Aira commanded. “Wait, and have faith.”

Bile filled Sam's throat as he watched the god steal the life of the innocent, beautiful woman he hadn't even had time to get to know, but he knew that trying to stop Mahākāla now would result in a horrid bloodbath. All he could do was wrap an arm around Castiel and steady the man as they watched the terrible spectacle unfold.

At last, the god released her with a growl, turning burning red eyes upon Amox, who was shaking with grief and fury. “Never has righteousness been so sweet upon the palate,” Mahākāla said with a satisfied snarl. Amox screamed in grief, and it appeared the god would have laughed—but he never got that far. A sudden roar escaped him, and he stumbled, the first true appearance of fear in those eyes. “What deception is this?” he hissed. “What has she done?”

“The girl is pure light.” The voice was Aira's, and it carried strong and clear. “Darkness and light cannot co-exist.”

Another roar left Mahākāla, and suddenly, Castiel was staring into moss-green eyes. His breath caught.

“Do it, Cas,” Dean choked out. “End me—end him. Please, God—I can't keep him away forever.” His knees buckled, and he gasped, “Castiel. Use the Asi. I'm not asking, man. I'm begging. Whatever Magdalena did--” he threw his head back, breath hissing between his teeth. “It has to be now, Cas,” he panted. “Now, or never.”

Slowly, painfully, Castiel rose, taking up the sword. His fingers were tight around the blade, and he found that his throat had closed painfully.

“Cas, now!” Castiel stepped close, his heart full of so many things he wanted to say and would never be able to voice. Instead, he laid a desperate kiss upon the man's lips, and whispered, “Forgive me for what I must do.”

Dean's eyes were very sad. “Meet you on the other side,” he said quietly, and Castiel drove the blade home.

*

Sam came to with a start, his head throbbing, and desperately hoped that everything that had transpired had been a dream. But when he saw Castiel kneeling by his brother's prone, too-still body, he was hit with the terrible reality that it was all too real.

Carefully, he made his way over, realizing he must have been knocked out when Mahākāla left the building, and tears filled his eyes. Castiel held Dean's body half in his lap, and was gently stroking the side of his face. Beside him was another man, and when Sam gazed at him questioningly, he said softly, “I am Aira. Magdalena was the one who enabled the god to be forced from your brother's body.” Sam swallowed hard. “I'm grateful she did what could. I just wish...” He stopped; started again. “Dean wanted this, and in the end I guess that's what matters.” Footsteps near him made Sam turn, and Amox stood there. His expression was gentle.

“You loved your brother.”

Sam's jaw twitched. “Yeah, I did.” Amox glanced at Castiel, who now sat with his head bowed over Dean's chest.

“It seems you were not the only one.”

“No,” Sam admitted quietly. “I wasn't.”

Amox was silent for a few moments, and then removed his necklace, holding it out for Sam to see. “I have only ever used this for evil,” he admitted, “but it has another purpose. It can heal.”

Sam shook his head. “Not to be rude or anything, but Dean's already dead. How can that help us?”

Amox held his gaze. “It can also raise the dead. That is why Lucifer was so intent on creating it.”

Sam's heart stopped for a moment. “Do you think you can--” He cut himself off mid-sentence, too afraid to voice what he was thinking unless it became just a wish.

“I can attempt it.”

Castiel looked up as Amox knelt beside him, his voice gentle. “Let me give him back to you, my brother.”

Castiel's gaze was uncomprehending as Amox laid the pendant upon Dean's chest. Camael and Aira watched in silence, the entire group waiting with bated breath to see if there was truly any hope that could come from such tragedy.

Amox poured whatever strength he could into the stone, and soon the familiar effects of using it began to take hold. His limbs shaking and sweat beading from his pores, he pushed himself harder, commanding the power he wielded to obey him; to mend what had been broken and breathe new life into what was empty.

“Stop, my brother.”

Aira's voice sounded very far away, but Amox shook his head once, and Aira did not ask again. At long last, with his vision fading and barely able to draw breath, Amox heard the sweetest sound: Dean's first, ragged intake of air. He was barely aware of hands cradling him against a warm body, but he could not respond. Raising Dean had done its damage, and he was dying. Tender hands cupped his face.

“You've saved the man,” came a murmur. “Rest now, beloved.”

 _Camael._ Blindly, he reached out, and his fingertips found her lips. He smiled weakly. “My love...”

“Yes,” she replied, tears in her voice, and he said raggedly, “Where is Magdalena?”

“I'm here, _Juan_ ,” she soothed, and her cool hands wrapped around his own. He sighed.

“ _Mi preciosa hija_ ,” he whispered, and his hand slipped from hers.

Sam looked away as the two women shared in their grief. He was grateful that Amox had saved Castiel's life, but he had never wanted the other man to perish because of it. Still, he knew that sacrifices were made every day, and just like Dean had chosen to make one to banish the god, Amox had chosen to give his life so that Dean might live.

Castiel gazed down at Dean, and the man's emerald eyes were steadfast as he spoke. “Did you mean that kiss?”

Castiel paused before answering, his throat tight. “I have loved you since I rescued your soul, Dean. I don't believe I have ever stopped.”

Dean hesitantly reached out and touched Castiel's cheek. “I've screwed up a lot. I don't know how long it's going to take to fix all of this.”

Castiel covered his hand with his own, his eyes gentle and reassuring. “Then why don't we fix it together?”

*

The ride back to the bunker was quiet. They had buried Amox in the woods, along with the pendant, and had brought Camael and Magdalena back to the motel room. From there, Magdalena had said, they would be able to figure out their future.

Sam discreetly headed to his room as soon as they got in, claiming he was tired and wanted time to process what had happened, but Castiel knew that he thought his brother and the former angel should have some space to discuss what they needed to.

Dean awkwardly cleared his throat once the door to Sam's room had closed, leaving the two of them in the living room. Castiel sat on the edge of the couch, staring at him calmly. “I fucked up,” Dean said eloquently, and Castiel sighed. “You made poor choices, yes. But I don't believe that in time, they can't be forgotten and looked upon as lessons to be learned from.”

Dean laughed hollowly. “I became a Hindu god bent on destruction. How is that a lesson I can learn from?”

Castiel rose and walked over to stand in front of Dean, and the other man swallowed at his proximity. “The things that happen to us in this life occur for a reason, Dean, whether they are giant errors or small ones. You have always been a good man, and this has not changed that.”

Dean smiled half-heartedly. “You still think I'm righteous, don't you?”

Castiel leaned in until his nose was brushing Dean's jaw. “I have always thought you were righteous,” he murmured. “Righteous, strong, and a beautiful warrior. You proved that today.”

Dean tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. “Anything else?”

Castiel's gaze met his. “Mine.”

This time, the kiss was three times as desperate as the one in the woods had been, and Dean couldn't help but melt into it, his hands grabbing for purchase on Castiel's hips and pulling him forward into his body. Castiel's hands slid into his hair, and suddenly there was a frantic rush to get each others' clothes off, their hands roaming everywhere at once.

Dean found himself being manhandled up the stairs to his bedroom, and found he had never been so turned on in his life as the moment when Castiel kicked the door shut and threw him to the bed, crawling up his body to straddle his thighs. Reaching out blindly, Dean fumbled in his nightstand drawer for the tube of lubricant he knew would be there, and pulling it out, flicked it open before squeezing out a generous amount and beginning to slick the other man's cock. Castiel hissed, throwing his head back in pleasure at being touched, and Dean's breath stuttered at the sight.

“Okay, okay,” he breathed. “Easy. We're not even at the fun part yet.”

Castiel met his gaze with hooded eyes, and heat curled in Dean's belly as he positioned himself. “You are mine, Dean Winchester,” he growled, and sank down in one smooth movement onto Dean's cock.

Dean groaned, hands landing squarely on Castiel's ribs in a way that would probably leave bruises later. “Move, Cas,” he urged, and rolled his hips up encouragingly. “Move with me.” Castiel soon fell into a slow, natural rhythm, twisting his hips just so in a way that drove Dean right to the edge and back again. Soon the two were a panting, writhing mess, locked in a tangle of limbs and fighting for dominance.

“Cas,” Dean ground out, his gut clenching and fire sparking through his veins. “Cas, God damn it--”

He was rewarded by a snap of Castiel's hips that had him searching for breath and cursing at the same time, legs trembling where they were locked tight around Castiel's waist.

“Language,” Castiel chided breathlessly, sweat gleaming on his chest as he relentlessly increased the pace.

A shameless whine fled Dean's lips, and he met Castiel thrust for thrust, until Castiel's movements became erratic and his breathing choppy.

“Dean,” he pleaded. “Dean, I--”

“Come on,” Dean encouraged, leaning up to lick a long stripe up Castiel's neck.

“Let go for me, Cas.”

“Dean--!”

“ _Let go_ ,” he growled, and Castiel shattered, not attempting to stifle his cry as his orgasm took him over, rocking himself on Dean's cock as he rode it out.

Seeing Castiel break was more than enough to destroy Dean's self-control, and he came with an unrestrained roar, losing himself in the moment. When he caught his breath, Castiel was sprawled comfortably on his chest, hands pillowed under his chin, gazing at him with calm blue eyes that reminded Dean of the sky on a summer day.

“What?” he asked, and couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Castiel reached out and traced his lips with a finger. “You are a complicated man, Dean. But that does not mean I love you any less. And I will stand by your side, no matter the circumstances, no matter the consequences. I knew this the moment my garrison sent me to retrieve you from Hell.”

Dean's eyes burned, and he said roughly, “No chick flick shit, Cas.”

“You will hear me, Dean.” Castiel's voice was sharp. “You are my reason for being, and nothing will change my mind on this fact. You may fail—as we all will—but do not allow yourself to think for one moment that because you will do so I will abandon you. We will get through this, and all other difficulties. I have faith in you.” Dean stared at him for a long time, and then said quietly, “Yeah, Cas. Okay. I love you, too.”

Castiel smiled, tucking his head under Dean's chin, and the other man stared at the ceiling, unable to stop a second smile from crossing his lips. _Angels are watching over you_ , his mother had said, and for the first time in his life, Dean truly believed it.

 

**END**


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